A Scandal in Baker Street
by Muffliato
Summary: Between refrigerated body parts and a 'not-really-zombified' flatmate, a young family's move to 221C really shouldn't have caused John Watson alarm. But nothing could be merely ordinary around Sherlock Holmes ... at least not with magic and Moriarty along for the ride.—Like tickling a sleeping dragon, this tale's humour transitions into crazy melodrama. Be afraid. Be very afraid...
1. A Case of Identity

**Summary:** Body parts in the fridge, midnight violin screeches, and a 'not-really-zombified' flatmate? John Watson could handle it all. Thus, a perfectly normal family's move into 221C was hardly cause for alarm. But that was before Sherlock Holmes decided he was overdue for a new obsession. ~~ Canon compliant for Sherlock and Harry Potter.

**A/N:** While I adore Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's original novels and short stories, my heart belongs to the contemporary re-imaginings of Sherlock Holmes. Hollywood did a great job, but BBC and Benedict Cumberbatch *sighs wistfully* pulled out all the stops.

I've been trying to figure out for AGES how to write a non-cliché Sherlock/Harry Potter crossover. But when that failed I decided to utilise the used and contrived plot device of having new tenants move into 221C Baker Street.

**General Disclaimer:** From my utter failure of using Britishisms properly, it should be bloody well obvious that I am not J.K. Rowling or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. There's plenty of other reasons why it's impossible for me to be either of them, but dudes, I have plenty of chapters to wax poetic about all of those.

* * *

John Watson stared at his mobile. The text was short, to the point, and gave off a faint air of ominous impatience. The doctor absently wondered if Greg Lestrade had been taking lessons from a certain consulting detective. But then the impact of the words crashed down on him and everything else wilted away.

He groaned. Frowning–for this hadn't fully encompassed his sense of imminent doom–he groaned again.

"Bugger." John rubbed his eyes before grabbing his coat, keys and wallet. "Double bugger. Of _course_ Sherlock didn't bother telling Scotland Yard he's alive. Course not. A bloody miracle they haven't barged in on a 'drug bust'."

Locking up he set off down the staircase, wondering where his friend had gone and whether or not he had his mobile on him. Yet these thoughts likewise dwindled off as John spotted several familiar figures on the stairwell. Ah, this was finally a bit of luck.

"-housing renovation." Sherlock Holmes had his eyes narrowed and was, was he talking to their neighbours in 221C? They had neighbours? Oh wait, no, he was analysing them. Everything was right in the world, no impending Apocalypse after all. "An extensive one. There is no issue with money, especially with his job at Scotland Yard. But both of you grew up poor and haven't settled into living in a London townhouse, so this temporarily rented flat is much more comfortable for you. Yet having two small children has made this latter possibility impossible, especially with her overbearing family and the frequency with which you are pulled into babysitting-"

"John!" Mrs. Hudson cried in welcome relief, derailing Sherlock's familiar habit of 'let's-tell-complete-strangers-their-entire-life-story'. "So glad you're here, come and meet your new neighbours."

"Nice to meet you." John nodded at the young couple (whirl-wind romance, he automatically considered, haunted eyes, high-quality but comfortable clothing) and roughly grabbed Sherlock, who had been staring intently at the bemused dark-haired man. "John Watson. I'm sorry to rush off but something just happened..."

The red-headed woman smiled. "Not a problem. You should both come over for tea sometime, at least once we finish unpacking."

"Absolutely." The husband absently wrapped an arm around his wife's waist. "We'd have been moved in by now, except that 'her overbearing family' has mysteriously disappeared off the edge of-" he pulled away as the woman aimed a kick his way, "-all right, all right! Sorry love."

"Thanks for the invitation." John said with a forced grin, perfectly aware that Sherlock was staring at the couple as though they had interrupted him mid-dramatic reveal at the end of a case. "Let me know if I can help with moving boxes or whatnot." With that done the doctor side-stepped Mrs. Hudson and unceremoniously dragged his protesting flatmate down the flight of stairs.

"What was that!" Sherlock protested as they stepped outside. "I was in the middle of a puzzle."

"A puzzle?" John replied drily, looking back and forth on the road. "How about this for a puzzle. You've been back for two weeks: why did Greg text me asking about a rumour that you're a zombie?"

"Greg?" Sherlock asked, still peering up at 221 Baker Street. "Ah, Lestrade."

"Yes, him." John groaned again as he finally hailed a cabbie. "The Scotland Yard inspector who should have known _two weeks ago that you were never dead._"

"Scotland Yard." Sherlock's eyes narrowed in thought before widening in realisation. "That's it, that's the problem! That was what didn't fit! It is impossible for ... John, we're going to Scotland Yard."

"Obviously. Wait ..." John stared at him, "... you didn't hear a word I said, did you. Never mind. I'm not even surprised." A cabbie pulled up as a scraggly haired man leaned out the window. "Scotland Yard, cheers."

"It's elementary." Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin as their cab pulled away. "Something didn't fit. If I pull this one piece I'm certain that the entire story will unravel."

John blinked. Stared at his friend, then blinked once more. "We're having two different conversations."

"Well then catch up." Sherlock replied blithely, closing his eyes in concentration. "The ring, John, the ring!"

"The what?" John gaped. "We're supposed to be talking about your not-actual-demise."

"Old news. Hideously boring." A sliver of a smile crossed his lips before his eyes sprang open in excitement. "Yes! I have it! Oh, they are good, aren't they."

"That's it. I'll stop bothering to ask." John sat back and tried to relax as the cab bypassed Oxford Street. "Silly idea, like you'd tell me what was going on."

"Moriarty!" Sherlock cried triumphantly. "Another loose end to his spiderweb. I can see it now, one dangling string which I can pull loose. Just one, that's all I need..."

"Uh huh." John said nonchalantly, staring out the window with feigned disinterest. Sherlock once more frowned in concentration.

"I'm sure it's him." He muttered, adjusting his scarf. "Unless this isn't as sinister as it first appears."

"Let's go with that." John replied reflexively, wondering if when they got to Scotland Yard he could manage to disappear when Sherlock inevitably got himself arrested.

* * *

It was not odd for John to stare at his best friend in disbelief. He had in fact made an art out of it and was quite proud of the multitude of incredulous looks that he could express at a moment's notice. These stares usually came into being whenever he found that Sherlock had gone even more out of his mind than usual and was–more times than naught–busy chatting to the blasted skull.

"You think _what_?" John's jaw gaped with just the right amount of incredulousness, lurking somewhere on the scale between 'you've-gone-mental-because-of-a-fictional-hound?' and 'bloody-hell-ZOMBIE-SHERLOCK!'. "No. No, nuh uh. Just ... no."

"You haven't met them properly." The world's only consulting detective swiftly moved towards the front door of Baker Street, ignoring John's protest of hypocrisy. "That man is surely one of Mycroft's or Moriarty's. The woman as well, though I admit that the children might be oblivious to the situation."

"Are you even listening to yourself?" John raced after him into the house. "The 'children might be oblivious', my god Holmes. They're a normal family! You're mental; absolutely paranoid."

"'Paranoid'?" Sherlock hissed, climbing the stairs two at a time. "Those people were lying. Everything about them is _wrong_. Wrong Wrong WRONG! If someone hadn't interrupted me I'd have already solved this problem."

"You're an idiot. Greg thought you were a zombie and you should have set him straight right from the start." John groaned, following his determined friend up the staircase. "You're lucky he only tried to shoot you. But that's beside the point: there's no problem, no puzzle. They. Are. New. Tenants. Why would they lie?"

"That man is not in Scotland Yard." Sherlock replied abruptly, not slowing his pace.

The doctor frowned. "Didn't you mention he was a detective? Then how could you tell-" His sentence was cut off as Sherlock spun about to face him as they stilled on the landing of flat 221C.

"Of course he's a detective." Sherlock scoffed, his back turned to their neighbours' door as he stoutly corrected John. "With his automatic surveillance of his surroundings, what else could he be? But he is not Scotland Yard."

"How do you know that?"

"Aside from the fact that he was even slightly observant, unlike the chaps on the force who make even _Anderson_ look intelligent? The records, John. The police records." Sherlock said heatedly, eyes sparking with what his friend recognised as delight in the newest puzzle. He supposed he should be happy there'd be no bullet hole designs on the wall this evening. "When Donovan fainted and distracted the entire room, it was child's play to guess Lestrade's password-"

"Um, Sherlock?" John warned, peering over his shoulder.

"-and one search proved that no one matching _his_ name was on the force." Sherlock continued, not paying any attention to John's less-than-subtle noises to shut it. "Of course, he could have told us a pseudonym, but that only increases the possibility that he is in Baker Street for an illegal purpose. That 'wife' is also clearly athletic and flexible, so if one is meant for espionage the other could have been assigned as an assassin. Oho, Moriarty is back! But repeating his tricks? How ordi-"

"HI HI!" A small voice shouted from behind Sherlock, making the latter freeze, halt his monologue, and slowly pivot around to face the now-wide-open doorway to 221c Baker Street. The detective's expression twisted into what on anyone else would have been incredulous surprise. John bit back a laugh at the sight.

"Don't mind my son and I." The red-headed woman leaned against the opening of her flat, arms crossed, smirking pleasantly at the two fidgeting men. "You were explaining how my husband and I were sent to spy on and kill someone? Oh, but thank you for the 'athletic and flexible' comment, I thought I'd never loose the baby weight from this little munchkin here."

"Hi hi!" Said munchkin repeated, grabbing hold of an utterly speechless Sherlock's leg. John absently wondered if it was possible to suffocate from pent-up hysterical laughter. He supposed there was a first time for everything, but god know's Harry would also die from laughing if she ever heard about it.

"Don't worry Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson; I'm harmless." The woman's smirk only broadened as she pulled her excited two year old son off of a stunned Sherlock and carried him back into their room. "Though my husband on the other hand ..."

The door shut with a snap behind her.

Sherlock blinked.

John cleared his throat. "Right, yes."

"Not one of Moriarty's then." Sherlock said in a strangled voice, his embarrassment disappearing as he settled back onto the present problem. He pulled John–still somewhat shocked though shaking with repressed laughter–back up the stairs. "Too blunt. Which means they're here on my brother's orders."

John wrenched his arm from Sherlock's grip and stared, eyes wide in amazement. "They aren't here on anyone's orders! He's an ordinary child–though one who's bizarrely fond of you–and she's a normal woman who luckily found this funny rather than insane. Listen to me: they're a regular family. That's all. No case, no puzzle, no mystery."

Sherlock sniffed. "A regular family? Hardly. Wrong, John. _Wrong_." His expression hardened in excitement as the possibilities swirled through his mind. "Indeed, I suspect that the 'Potters' are as unordinary as can be. How entertaining."

A faint smile graced his lips as he hurried up to his flat, leaving the doctor staring at his retreating figure in surprise and a grudging hint of excitement. Sure this was probably nothing, but with Sherlock you never did know.

John looked back at the closed door of 221C. It was funny how there did seem to be something off. Not that it was any of their business to poke their noses into this. But, well, since Sherlock was clearly going to do it anyway he might as well tag along.

It was only logical, after all. Simply elementary.

* * *

**A/N:** Like most of my stories this fic will be completely compliant with my 'Hallowed Time Twists' story but either can be read separately. This IS canon for both fandoms and is set post-season two for "Sherlock" and post-Deathly Hallows/pre-Epilogue for "Harry Potter". I intend to stuff as many characters into this tale as possible, so if you want to see anyone in particular just let me know!

I have various fanfics and non-fanfic related projects ongoing, so if I see elevated interest in one of my stories I'll get really happy, do a wrackspurts dance, and work solely on that. I'll update either way but you'll get new chapters much faster if I get feedback/reviews on what people want to see!


	2. The Adventure of the French Interpreter

**A/N:** Whoo, I'm done with exams! But more importantly: Holy Moriarty, thanks guys! I can't believe how many page views I've gotten from just one chapter, but I am so happy that people like my crazy little plot bunny.

Just so you know, I message everyone who reviews. I know that some writers answer them at the start of every new chapter, but my typical Author's Notes are already perfectly cluttered! And do you guys really want to wade through even more of my gibberish?

And Veronika, you're brilliant. Seriously brilliant, so I'm blatantly stealing your idea about Mycroft-it's just too perfect not to use! But I love how when I was preparing to post this oleanderclouds reviewed with the exact same idea. And now I can't stop giggling about the deranged fans and _obliviates_, so expect to see a chapter about that soon.

**General Disclaimer:** If I was in charge of Sherlock's plot twists, certain detective and criminal consultants would have a few hidden horcruxes.

* * *

Another text. Another blasted, obscure text with only two words: 'Come outside'. Since Sherlock was currently having a staring match with the skull on the mantle-place, the anonymous message could only be from one person.

"Is he in Scotland Yard?" Sherlock muttered to himself, crossing his fingers below his chin.

"You already figured that out." John said, peering out the window at the stationary black armoured car. It was fairly obvious that it would be there, no deduction skills required. His mobile went back in his coat pocket. "Your brother texted me. Why is he still texting me?"

"That's the problem: I _haven't _solved it." Sherlock's gaze never left the skull. "But with the text, how on earth should I know?"

"Because between the two of us, you're his brother and the detective with a Holmes brain..." John trailed off before deciding to drop it and just stand and get the inevitable meeting over with. "...forget it. I'll go see what he wants, but if I'm kidnapped it's your fault."

Sherlock huffed. "'Kidnapped'? Really John, what are the odds of that. You're far more likely to be shot at while in the vicinity of my _brother_."

"Right." The doctor blinked and began walking over the carpet. "I'm off, don't sneak into our neighbour's flat again while I'm out. Just, just focus on the actual police case, or the skull, or anything else really. Anything not obviously illegal!"

John just caught a snatch of a muttered, "They left their window open, practically asking me to come in-" before the door shut behind him. He sighed, shook his head, and made his way down the stairs.

Stepping outside, it was again obvious that he had been right about the car. A dark vehicle with blacked-out windows was just outside the front door and was extraordinary for its utter ordinariness. Strange though that it hadn't parked a street or two away. But used to the routine by now, the doctor tapped on a window.

"Anthea?" The vehicle's door opened in answer. It was only when John had gotten in, shut the door, felt the engine start up, and bothered to look at the seat next to him that he realised his mistake. His first thought? This was certainly not Anthea. His second thought? Not so much a 'thought' as a startled scramble back from the unblinking little girl, peering at him with wide eyes an inch from his face.

Any regular person would have shouted out in shock. Then again, not every person was a flatmate of Sherlock Holmes.

"Mon dieu!" The blonde child was pulled away by a startlingly beautiful woman, one with matching golden hair and wearing a curve-hugging while conservative lilac dress. Since John was hardly blind, he couldn't help but notice that she was gorgeous and, was she glowing? No, she couldn't be glowing. That was ridiculous. But, it did seem like there was an aura around her, that even with her angry expression one couldn't help but be drawn in closer. "Après George et les salamandres, ne pourrais-tu pas mieux te tenir?"

"Mais, mais Teddy a dit..." The little girl squiggled in the woman's arms but the latter would clearly have none of it.

"I am so sorry." The woman apologetically turned to John as his heartbeat began to return to its normal pace. "My daughter is very energetic, it is from my husband's side of the family." She moved her arm around her squirming child. "Fleur Weasley, and this is Victoire."

"John Watson." He shook her hand. Mrs. Weasley had a surprisingly strong grip. "Do you know what's going on? This _is_ Mycroft Holmes' car, right?"

"It is." Fleur looked at him curiously. "You two are friends?"

"I, well," John struggled with the word, "we're acquaintances. How do you know him?"

"Through my husband's side of the family." The woman repeated the phrase with an odd familiarity, as though she was used to explaining anything away with this statement. She plopped her daughter back on the seat and refastened her seatbelt.

John felt a sneaking suspicion come to the forefront of his mind. Never mind Sherlock's brain, he knew to never doubt the uneasy feeling in his gut. "His side? Your husband doesn't happen to be a Holmes?"

"Non, not at all." Fleur smiled gently. She seemed almost amused that John hadn't asked something else, but didn't at all elaborate on what that was. Hmm, she seemed almost like a Holmes herself. At least in that respect: she did seem to wear her heart a bit more on her sleeve. Or apparent emotions at all, to be honest.

They fell into silence for a few seconds. Listening to Victoire's nonchalant humming the doctor felt like he had to speak up. "I'm sorry, but why are you here? Why am I here?"

"I am here for a negotiation, and I assume you are in the car as well because Holmes is either stingy or short of chauffeurs."

"Okay." John said with a nod, before pausing and realising she hadn't answered his questions. "No, that's not what I meant. What negotiation? And why am _I_ here?"

The woman blinked, tilting her head to the side. "It's a business negotiation. But why should I know why you are here?"

"I mean, why me and not Sherlock?"

"Who?" Fleur stared at him blankly, her blue eyes somehow becoming even wider. This made her even more resemble little Victoire, who hadn't stopped staring and humming at a fidgeting John.

The doctor warily shook his head. "I-never mind. Why is your daughter here?"

"It is only a short errand." Fleur absently brushed Victoire's hair even though the latter tried to squirm away. "I just picked her up from a friend so it was easy enough to bring her along. Who is 'Sherlock'?"

"Right." John nodded as though he understood the situation. "Oh, Sherlock is Mycroft's brother. We're flatmates at Baker Street."

The woman's head jerked towards him with a startled stare, the girl's locks falling from her fingers. "Baker Street? You live on Baker Street?"

He started at her unexpected reaction. "Erm, yes. Number 221."

"221." A soft hand came up to Fleur's lips in shock. "You and a Holmes brother live there? Mon dieu, il est un idiot!"

"Maman, maman: qui est un idiot?" Victoire bounced in her seat with curious delight.

"Ton oncle, mon chou." Fleur said with a groan. John blinked: how could this woman sound sexy even while she clearly wanted to throttle someone? For all he knew that actually was what she was saying.

The little girl looked far too eager. "Lequel?"

"Pardon?" John said in bewilderment. "I don't know French, but why are you calling someone an idiot?"

"Because he is." Fleur exasperatedly stated before shooting a look at her grinning daughter. "No Victoire, you cannot repeat the word I just said. It is a bad word."

The little girl frowned and huffed. "That's _barely_ a swear. But Teddy taught me some great ones like-"

"That's enough now." The mother cut off her daughter. She looked up at John apologetically. "I'm sorry, I was reminded of something by what you said. I think that my brother-in-law might have followed some of Holmes' advice."

"That's never a good idea." John decided that being in the know was overrated. Yes, let's skip over the big, monstrous leaps of logic. Much more relaxing to ignore those. "But why were you surprised that I lived in Baker Street? The car picked me up there."

Fleur jumped in her seat and reflexively looked backwards. Realising this was hopeless she groaned aloud once more before muttering, "That was Baker Street? Merde, I could have dropped off Vict-"

"Merde!" The small girl cried delightedly. "Mer-"

"Victoire!" Fleur swiftly interrupted her. "Do not say that!"

"But you did." Victoire crossed her arms stubbornly.

"Maman realised she had done something silly."

"Sorry," John stepped into the conversation, "but you could have dropped your daughter at Baker Street? Do you know Mrs. Hudson?"

"Who?" Fleur just had time to ask before the car ground to a halt. As the doors clicked open and John looked out onto a strangely familiar sight, all thoughts of Baker Street and what would happen if Sherlock tried to babysit were swept from his mind.

The doctor did a double-take, blinked, rubbed his eyes, and tried again. But the sight remained the same.

"Fleur and Victoire Weasley." Fleur didn't seem at all surprised as she dug through her small purse before handing two passports to the stationary guard. "We have an appointment."

The man checked them over before nodding. "Sir? Identification please."

"Um, right." John shook his head in amazement and pulled his driver's license from his wallet. "John Watson? I'm supposed to see Mycroft-"

"-Holmes." The guard finished for him, nodding as he handed back the ID. "The three of you are expected. Go directly inside."

Looking back out at the ominous black gate with a small army of a security force on horseback, John felt himself freeze. This was, until Fleur took him by the elbow and pulled him forward.

"A shock?" The woman said pleasantly as they headed towards the building.

"A bit." John managed to croak out. "Do you, do you come here often?"

Fleur handed the passports over to the next guard. "Some. Victoire! Don't run off."

"Sorry maman." The girl skipped up to the steps. "Are we seeing Uncle Percy?"

"He's not here today, mon chou." John heard the woman say while he again showed his identification. "This might be boring, but we'll be done soon."

"Can we visit Teddy then?" Victoire practically bounced.

Fleur hesitated and, oddly, sent John a cursory glance. "Maybe not today, we'll see."

"Okay maman." Victoire took her mum's hand and walked with her into 10 Downing Street. John followed the blondes at a slower pace, still mesmerised by where he was.

Then again, after accompanying his trouser-less flatmate to Buckingham Palace, he doubted that any turn of events could truly strike him as being particularly strange. So following yet another guard through the understated hallways, they were led to a room with a certain familiar man working behind a desk. Said man looked up with something resembling a smile. The door closed behind them.

"Ah, pleasant to see you as always." Mycroft stood up, every inch of him an immaculate bureaucrat in pinstripes. "Doctor Watson, I have something to discuss. But first, Mrs. Weasley-"

"Mr. Umbrella Man!" Victoire happily squealed, pulling away from her mother's hold to skip up to the vaguely bewildered Holmes brother. John smirked at the confusion on the latter's face–ah, karma at last. He would have to tell Sherlock about this, he'd never let his brother live it down.

"Quite." Mycroft spoke, hesitantly moving around the desk. "Victoire, is it? So good to see you again-"

"Do you have a pink one?" The girl was practically bouncing. Fleur's lips twitched, holding back a laugh.

Mycroft blinked. "A...what?"

"A pink one." Victoire said slowly, knowing that she was talking to one of those adults who took forever to catch on. "Black's nice and all, but Hagrid's is amazing! You should have one too! Ooo, with yellow bunnies!"

"I see." Even though Mycroft clearly didn't. John couldn't particularly blame him. "Mrs. Weasley, do you have the papers?"

"Of course." Fleur rummaged through her purse, even though it was dainty, small, and surely couldn't hold more than a wallet. "I'm sorry about Victoire. She just had a chocolate fr-some chocolate and has been hyper ever since."

"It wasn't that much." Her daughter pouted.

"Hush. Ah, here we are." The blonde woman pulled out a packet of papers from her minuscule purse and handed them to Mycroft, who only looked partly dazed at the sight. John, on the other hand, had dropped his jaw and couldn't stop muttering about Mary Poppins.

"Good, good." It was to Mycroft's favour that he was impressively able to push the impossible situation to the side. "Everything is in perfect order. It will be delivered shortly and your employers will receive an answer by tomorrow."

Fleur clicked her purse shut. "Wonderful. Should we leave you two to your business?"

"Actually, one moment if you please." Mycroft set down the packet and swept up another few pages from his desk. "I understand that you are originally from Thonon-les-Bains in northeastern France?"

"Yes? I suppose I shouldn't bother asking how you knew that." She tilted her head inquisitively while ushering her daughter away from an expensive blue vase. Wait, hadn't it been yellow when they'd walked in? "But I have lived in Britain for a number of years."

"You are still fluent in the particular colloquial verses of that area?"

The woman frowned. "Of course, but why-"

"I am sorry to bother you," Mycroft handed the new pages to her, "but we have had a spot of trouble translating a few words of this. Parisian French would be easy enough, yet our correspondent's dialect is rather incomprehensible. If you do not wish to act as transcriber we will have another fluent speaker in by the morning, but if you could possibly help now it certainly would not hurt our ensuing business deal."

Fleur gazed down at the front page, gently biting her lip. "No, this should be fine. I have some time since this went faster than I thought it would."

"Wonderful!" Mycroft ushered the surprised woman and child into a side room. "Thank you so much for your assistance, and I am sure you understand the need for security on this issue." He shut the door and turned back to John.

"What just happened?" John finally regained his voice. Most of it, that is, but at least it was only a little bit faint. "That we're in blasted Number 10 is enough, but the purse? And you gave that woman something which, knowing you, is a state secret? Don't get me wrong, she seems lovely: but it's _you_. You make Sherlock seem almost normal! So with your paranoia why would you give-"

"Where else would we meet but here? An abandoned warehouse?" Mycroft answered simply, stepping up in front of the desk. "My dear doctor, we are past mere formalities. As for Mrs. Fleur Weasley's purse: it is Versace, almost new, her husband has gotten a raise and her sister is pregnant–but there is nothing particularly unusual about the purse in and of itself. As for the papers, she has the required security clearance level."

"Of course she does." John instantly decided it would be best to just ignore every unusual thing about this 'answer'. That is, after all, how one had a conversation with a Holmes. "Umbrella Man?"

Mycroft twitched. "Let us both forget that ever happened, and not mention it to my dear brother."

"Sure." Like that would happen. "Now, you wanted to see me because..."

"Do I need an excuse to chat? To catch up with a friend?" Mycroft crossed his arms. "I simply wanted to know how everything was on Baker Street. With Sherlock's recent rise from the dead, I merely wish to ensure that things are proceeding smoothly."

John didn't answer, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"For example, is there a new case? Has Mrs. Hudson recovered from her head cold? Or," Mycroft smiled in a way which made the doctor twitch, "are there any neighbours which my brother has developed a sudden obsession with?"

"The CCTV spying thing is getting old." John stated drily, trying to push away his surprise because he really knew that this shouldn't be surprising at all. No deduction skills needed for that one. "All right, what can you tell me about the Potters?"

"To begin with," Mycroft matched his dryness tone for tone, "tell my dear, impulsive brother that it is not polite to sneak into a flat through a previously locked window. It is in fact most impolite, illegal, and potentially detrimental to one's health. Especially in consideration with this particular flat."

"Why _this_ flat?" John felt his curiosity peek. "You've never been concerned with Sherlock doing something illegal before. You're only worried when it's a dangerous situation."

"Quite." The older Holmes brother uncrossed his arms to straighten his already immaculate tie. "We are at last on the same page."

"Wait, they're dangerous?" The doctor couldn't help but gawk. "Oh god, tell me Sherlock isn't right about us having more assassins."

Mycroft allowed a faint smile to cross his expression. "No Mr. Watson, the Potters are not assassins. Nor are they spies, contrary to what my brother believes. He is so very fast at jumping to conclusions."

"Then...how are they dangerous?"

"That," Mycroft replied simply, "is quite beside the point. Just know that they will not harm you if you do not provoke them: which includes continuing to break into their flat."

"It was only one time." John pointed out. "To be fair, Sherlock was bored."

Mycroft sighed. "When is he not. Let me put this simply: do not aggravate the Potters."

"You still haven't told me why."

The older man raised an eyebrow.

John got a feeling that he was talking to a brick wall. An impenetrable brick wall of bureaucracy, orders, and red tape that reminded him of his days in the army. "Ah, need to know and all that?"

The eyebrow didn't move.

"Right." John stuck his hands in his pockets and looked around the room. "Right then. So, I'll be off-"

But the side door burst back open before the doctor could exit the room. Out from the sudden opening ran Fleur, resembling a gorgeously deadly bird of prey as she pulled her daughter along with one hand, holding the papers in a white-hot grip in the other. Her expression and voice positively leaked of anger.

"Mon dieu! Holmes, c'est incroyable!"

"Mrs. Weasley-" Mycroft began as he quickly yet elegantly paced forward, but his attempt to stop the woman's rant rapidly fell through.

"Do you even know what you have?" Fleur asked disbelievingly. "_Who_ you have?"

"I am very aware of what is occurring." Mycroft reached out to grab the papers as the woman frantically flung them around. "We will have him in custody shortly."

This statement only made Fleur more agitated. "You think that _you_ will be able to bring him in!"

"It is only one man, my dear." He tried to calm her down, and for good reason. If John didn't know that it was impossible he would have sworn that her hair was sprouting fiery feathers. "Not much trouble at-"

"_Not much trouble_?" Fleur vented in a heated whisper. John silently noticed how fortunate he was to not only see Mycroft be interrupted multiple times, but stunned and bewildered to boot. "You. Have. LESTRANGE!"

"Le who?" John finally piped in, but both ignored him to continue arguing. The doctor thus found himself in the odd position of sharing a commiserating look with a little girl as she rolled her eyes and mouthed: 'They'll be done soon.'

Huh. Well, good to know. John twiddled with his thumbs for a moment. When that moment stretched or too long he mutely got out his cell and, sending out a quick text, decided that it was better for his remaining sanity to ignore that the air was growing heavier as Fleur ranted away. Yes, definitely best to ignore that. Maybe he should ask Sherlock how that repressing thing works?

* * *

**A/N:** I love the idea of Mycroft being in on it. I kind of adore Fleur (Who _must_ have a British accent by this point). She's like a totally awesome Mary Sue, even though that's an oxymoron. Smart/brave/powerful enough to be a Triwizard Champion, non-human, gorgeous, helped in the Second War, overlooked her fiancé's werewolf-ness for love, and didn't curse Ginny and Hermione for calling her 'phlegm'? Yep, definitely amazing.

10 Downing Street (sometimes referred to as 'Number 10') is where the Prime Minister lives. That's not to say that Mycroft is the PM: he's just the British government, no biggie.

3lle and silver cat 777, thank you so much for correcting my French!

~ Après George et les salamandres, ne pourrais-tu pas mieux te tenir? = After George and the salamanders, can't you behave?

~ Mais, mais Teddy a dit... = But, but Teddy said...

~ Mon dieu, il/qui est un idiot! = My god, he/who is an idiot!

~ Ton oncle, mon chou. = Your uncle, my cabbage ('My cabbage' an affectionate term, like 'my pumpkin' in English).

~ Lequel? = Which one?

~ Merde = A curse word

~ C'est incroyable! = It's incredible!

Also, reviews are even better than fluffy pink umbrellas. You know, just saying :D


	3. The Adventure of the Dancing Men

**General Disclaimer:** While it was unfortunately not my fate to create HP or Sherlock, I'm likely hardwired to write crossovers of the two. For when John Watson first mentioned his sibling Harry in the first episode, I 'kinda-sorta-maybe' gave off a fangirl squee. But then with Harry actually being Harriet, my momentary crazy hope of a canon crossover was brutally crushed to pieces. And _crucio_ed for good measure before a quick _reducto_ finished the job *sniff*

* * *

The evening was a normal one for the Potters. The moving boxes had been quickly unloaded and their flat already looked almost like home. 'Almost' being the key word, for many of their more unusual possessions was sequestered away in closets, floorboards, and shrunken to fit beneath the sofa's cushions. Indeed, the most unordinary thing apparent to any outside observer was the rapidness with which they were able to move house. That, and the odd sticks of wood which the older Potters always carried on their persons.

Though Mrs. Hudson did remark that they must buy a remarkable amount of hair dye, and that little Teddy looked adorable with his multiple colours. Ginny smiled, said that it was a phase, and politely ushered the woman out the door before she noticed the yellow locks becoming pink. Still, this was nothing compared to the close call when Jamie transfigured Sherlock's skull into a dragon beanie baby, but that was soon set to right with the muggles being none the wiser.

Thus, this evening was spectacularly normal in comparison. With Harry poring over the newest case file, Ginny bouncing a sleepy Al in her lap, and Teddy and Jamie gleefully destroying the kitchen (numerous alarm and cushioning charms in place to prevent a trip to St. Mungo's), 221C was as tranquil as could be.

"Maybe we shouldn't have let the boys make dessert." Ginny sent another charm to the kitchen and frowned. "But they were so enthusiastic."

"Uh huh." Harry scratched out a few figures with his quill, blotting the paper.

"Well, as long as they don't hurt themselves." Ginny walked across the living room, pulling a chair up to the desk and resting her head on her husband's shoulder. She peered over at the case papers. "Hmm, are you positive Teddy didn't draw these?"

Harry humourlessly chuckled, looking morosely at the page in question. "Yeah, I'm sure they aren't Teddy's drawings."

"Or maybe Jamie." Ginny shifted baby Al in her arms. "It wouldn't be the first time their drawings got mixed with your case notes."

"I wish that was what happened." He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "These symbols keep appearing in crime scenes. It's clearly a cypher and everyone's been scrambling to solve the code, but it's impossible without more examples. Merlin, it's like half the information is missing!"

"They keep appearing at crime scenes?"

Harry nodded, glaring at the symbols and his own scribblings on the page. "Yep, written on walls or scraps of parchment. Then with this added to Fleur's information..." He pushed the papers away with a sigh. "We'll figure it out eventually. But enough of that; let's rescue the boys from the food monster they've surely created."

"It can't be that bad." She smiled. "They're only making sundaes. So, our kitchen almost certainly has an ice cream wallpaper..."

"No, they did that to Andromeda's place last time. I vote that they somehow made it sentient."

"Sentient?" Ginny raised an eyebrow.

Harry nodded, grinning slightly. "Absolutely. Hey, if there can be plants like mandrakes and whomping willows, why can't there be sentient treacle tart?"

"I think that's missing the point love." She said slowly, as though once again doubting her husband's sanity. "Besides, that would likely push our neighbours over the edge."

This statement was enough to put a hitch in Harry's good mood. "The neighbours? Let's keep talking about Lestrange and cyphers! Yes, much better."

"I thought it was a fairly good segue myself, and don't avoid the topic." Ginny spoke lightly, straightening up. "We have to figure out what to do about this. They obviously can't be told the truth, but your obliviations are becoming a bit much."

Harry turned to her in amazement. "What? Oh, I'm sorry for keeping magic a secret. I'll let Holmes do whatever he wants from now on, no problem. You know, _like breaking into our flat_?"

"Oh hush." She chided. "You're only making him more suspicious and that man can piece things together like I've never seen. Still, you're being paranoid. He's funny once you get used to him."

"Funny?" Harry stared at his wife in surprise. "Might I repeat that this man broke. Into. Our. Flat!"

"Like that's unusual." Ginny snorted. "Between your fans and mine it's not exactly an odd occurrence. Thank Merlin the ward and anti-apparition keep the dangerous ones out."

"Yes, but they have magic." He sighed. "How could a muggle have gotten in?"

"Through a window." She drily responded. "He's a Holmes. Mycroft even warned us that his brother was here."

Harry groaned. "Excuse me for thinking that family couldn't possibly get more eccentric."

"You're one to talk." Ginny kissed the slight stubble on his chin and gently placed the awakening Al on his lap. "Mr. Let's-obliviate-the-neighbours."

"For Merlin's sake, give it a week and Holmes alone will bring down the Statute of Secrecy."

"Don't be melodramatic, it doesn't suit you." Ginny stepped around the chair and perched herself on the desk, moving the case report away. "Nothing will happen. We only just moved in and we can't let an ordinary muggle in on the secret, so we'll have to make the best of it. Teddy and I will have fun with pranks and teasing, Jamie will traumatise the neighbours with hugs, Al will keep Mrs. Hudson distracted with his cuteness, and you'll _obliviate_ everything away. Simple. Problem solved."

Harry once more groaned, running a hand through his hair while adjusting his son on his lap. "You honestly don't see the issue with that? How it will inevitably explode?

"Of course I do. But I, unlike you, am an optimist." Ginny playfully swung her legs. "I see the danger but I might as well get a few laughs in and not spend my time peering around every corner. Harry, I love you, but stop channeling Mad-Eye. The muggles are harmless: you're only focusing on one side of the situation."

Harry leaned back with a sigh, contemplating his wife's words. A comfortable silence fell around the couple, so relaxing that they could almost block the banging and eruptions in the other room from their minds. But then like all tranquil moments at the Potters, it came to a rapid end.

The auror suddenly sat up, his eyes widening with an instant epiphany. "'One side of the situation'..."

"Harry?" Ginny asked curiously, but instead of an answer she got a kiss on the lips and a gurgling baby in her arms.

"The other half of the story!" Her husband exclaimed, all-but cheering in excitement. "It was right in front of me! Gin, you're a genius. Brilliant, absolutely bloody brilliant!"

"Language, dear." She said in amusement, adjusting Al as she watched Harry hurriedly gather his wand and cloak. "I'm glad you recognise my genius ways, but what brought this on?"

"I _was_ missing half the puzzle." Harry grinned, picking up the dancing men papers and grabbing a coat. "That's what I'm missing! Muggles, hah! It's so obvious." He dashed into the kitchen and Ginny heard him call out quick good byes to the boys. In a moment he was back and giving her another kiss.

"So, you're off then?" She said as he pulled back. "It's getting late."

Harry waved it off, rushing out as he called over his shoulder. "I'll be back soon for the sentient dessert, I just need to break into Scotland Yard!"

The door shut behind him.

The ensuing silence was only broken by the laughter, growling, and clattering coming from the kitchen.

Ginny finally blinked. "First Gringotts, now this?" She muttered, torn between fondness and exasperation. "I should be surprised, I really should be. Damn it, couldn't he even _pretend_ to be normal?"

Looking out the window she was just in time to spot her husband disapparating in the deserted street. She looked down at her baby with a soft smile, gently tickling his wiggling nose. "If you ever pull one of your daddy's stunts you are grounded forever. Do you hear me munchkin? No playing with death, fate, or aurors. Good. Glad you understand. Let's get you some food and see if your brothers have created life yet."

* * *

The heavy smell of incense amongst the dense crimson and gold scarves was likely the most ordinary part of the room's decor. John surveyed the stuffy interior which looked like an old world fortune teller's tent. Candles, Ouija boards, masquerade masks and enough chemical ingredients to make even Sherlock jealous littered the crammed area. There was even a blasted crystal ball for heaven's sake, and the entire place was practically shimmering. It was as though this second floor flat had been painted over with sparkling glitter. Even the bloody cyphers of dancing men on the walls at first all-but blended into the red, cracking wallpaper. The only thing which didn't fit was the dead body of a sharply dressed man lying in the middle of the floor, his face twisted up in a final expression of utmost horror.

It was funny how one got used to crime scenes. Well, not funny per se. But John did find it odd to remember when a single murdered body could shock him. After battlefields and a 'thriving' medical career, it was certainly strange that the first case he'd been on with Sherlock–Jennifer Wilson, too much pink, adulterer, missing mobile and suitcase–had made him hesitate with a squeamishness he hadn't felt since facing a country at war. Oh, he'd handled it in the end, but it was disconcerting to find that he was more appalled at a murder than at a bomb blast.

John glanced around the room. Sherlock was in a corner staring at a candle and the police were, in turn, staring at the consulting detective in undisguised disbelief. For the first time all evening the doctor felt that this had less to do with his friend's 'is-or-is-he-not-a-zombie' status, and far more to do with the fact that he was blatantly ignoring both the childish stick figures written in blood on the wall, and the dead body–but actually dead in this man's case–lying on the floor.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Male, thirty at most, no identification and no apparent sign of death. Some cuts, but nothing which could have been fatal."

Sherlock made no indication that he had heard. The barely-there stump candle still held his undivided attention. Anderson rolled his eyes but Lestrade strode on. "With his terrified expression, you'd almost think he was frightened to death."

"Poison." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, not bothering to turn toward his comrades. "Or deadly fumes, likely wafted about as it came in contact with a flame. _That_ much is obvious. But the occult-"

"Deadly fumes?!" Donovan jumped back in horror, flinging her scarf up to cover her nose and mouth. "Freak, why didn't you tell us before!" She made a mad dash to the door.

"It's gone." The simple words stopped the terrified woman in her tracks when she was already half-way out of the room. "Long gone–if it wasn't, none of us would be alive." Sherlock huffed and finally turned around. "No trace of the poison left on the candle. Now, the occult?"

"I think you'll find something else more interesting." Lestrade pointed at the body while Donovan blushed and glared at Sherlock before closing the door.

"Oh?" Sherlock looked haughtily at the inspector, a challenge on his lips.

"The stick figures-" Lestrade began.

"Yes, I'm not blind. I can see the dancing men cyphers on the wall." Sherlock impatiently interrupted.

"-are also cut into the man's hand." Lestrade finished without missing a beat. He similarly did not look shocked when the consulting detective froze before immediately jumping over to the corpse.

Kneeling down, Sherlock's head tilted this way and that like a fidgeting bird as he examined the hand. John leaned forward as well and saw that little stick figures had indeed been cut into the skin. If not for the grotesque situation, one would have almost thought that they were children's drawings.

"Shallow but purposefully-made slices." Sherlock muttered to himself, gazing at the etchings from every angle. "Made with a penknife by a right-handed person..."

"Come on!" Anderson scoffed. John noticed he still kept a fair distance between himself and Sherlock, almost always standing so that Lestrade was between them. Oh god, did he actually believe that zombie rumour? "How the cut was made, sure, fine. But there's no way you could know which hand the culprit writes with."

"Anderson, stop talking before you permanently lower the IQ of the entire city." Sherlock jerked up with a testy stare. John felt a small amount of satisfaction when he noticed Anderson pale and back away a few steps. "The cut figures are leaning to the right. Our assailant is right-handed or ambidextrous. Now face the other way, you're putting me off."

"And the freak is back." Anderson muttered, his white expression turning pink around the edges. "Well, what if the bloke did it to himself? From all this rubbish he must've had a few screws loose."

"Good lord, will you shut up! Stop thinking before you hurt yourself." Sherlock growled, whatever tenuous patience he had had snapping into pieces. "Aside from occam's razor, the stick figures were cut into the man's right hand _with_ a right hand. Tell me Anderson, is your little theory possible?"

"No–" Anderson admitted reluctantly.

"No!" Sherlock exclaimed, standing up to glower at him. "So stop talking, stop moving, stop thinking loudly, and let me get back to work!"

"Oh, for God's sake." Anderson muttered as Sherlock agitatedly moved to observe the figures on the wall. Meanwhile, John straightened up in order to inspect the rest of the body. He was just leaning forward to see if the man's face would have any discolouration from the poison when he felt a tingle go up his spine.

The military had certainly left its mark on John Watson. Orderliness, attention to detail, and a certain amount of paranoia were now part of his personality. Yet perhaps the biggest change which had come about was his reflex reaction to anything his instincts told him was _wrong_. A tingle in his spine as though his personal space had been invaded? Better to act first and ask questions later.

Without hesitation, the doctor spun around and swiped at the air behind him. He had been pretty sure that he had slapped Anderson–which would have been such a shame–but as he observed the space he saw that there was only open, empty air. And yet...

John peered down at his hand curiously. He could have sworn that he had felt something, that something like soft cloth or a spiderweb had touched his fingers. But there was nothing physically there. He gave another experimental swipe, narrowing his eyes in the process.

"John?" Lestrade asked, looking at him with concern.

"Sorry." John managed to look away from the air even while his instincts were practically screaming at him not to turn his back. "Say, did you-"

There was barely a whisper. A whisper from somewhere behind him where someone most certainly was not. A brush of cold water sparking in the back of his neck, making his muscles numb and his thoughts race with alarming incoherence. His eyes widened in fear and doubt and 'what-the-hell-just-happened'; he met Sherlock's gaze just as he felt his mind go fuzzy and, and were the fumes still in here? No, no there was someone behind-

John blinked and recaught his balance. He blinked again and found himself staring at the corpse. Ah, the dead body and the cyphers. Right. That was what he'd been concentrating on before getting lost in his thoughts. He shook his head slightly before turning up to meet a surprising sight.

Sherlock was staring at him, emotions spiralling across his typically stoic face. Uncertainty, worry, doubt, surprise, fear-they whirled past one after another so quickly that most were lost.

"John?" Sherlock took a hesitant step forward, an odd edge of vulnerability in his voice. "What happ-" The consulting detective cut himself off as he whirled around to stare in panic at the door. "Who left?" He said rapidly, his pale face draining of whatever colour it had.

"Are you mental?" Anderson shuffled even closer to the wall. "Or well, even more mental? No one's left."

"The door just opened and closed." Sherlock bit out through gritted teeth, sparring concerned glances over to the doctor. "John, what happened?"

"What?" John scratched his head, utterly mystified. "Nothing."

Donovan pursed her lips. "Freak, you're hallucinating. If you came to this blasted crime scene high-"

"Donovan, stop." Lestrade said with a hint of annoyance. "I noticed the door close as well, but it must've been the wind. Still, John, are you feeling all right?"

"I feel fine." The doctor blinked again. "Again, what?"

Lestrade didn't stop looking at him. "You had a strange expression and then almost fainted."

"Finally!" Sherlock seemed almost proud of the inspector. "_Someone_ using their eyes. But it wasn't the wind: Donovan shut the door after her utterly ridiculous poison panic. Thus, the door must have been reopened before closing again."

Donovan darkly scowled at the reminder. "So what, it's your imaginary friend?"

"Don't be idiotic." Sherlock didn't even bother looking at her, alternating his gaze between the doctor and the door. "John, what happened?"

"Nothing!" He repeated, flabbergasted. "Really, nothing happened. My thoughts drifted off so maybe I accidentally made a weird expression."

"What were you thinking about?" Sherlock asked quickly. John could have sworn that his friend's eyes widened momentarily in horrified realisation. The hell?

"Why would that matter?" The doctor said in complete amazement.

"To trace back what the disturbance was." In a few quick steps Sherlock was beside John and gazing at him with the utmost concern. An expression which, on him, was all-but alien and quite disconcerting. "Concentrate, John. I need you to concentrate! Think! All of this is absolutely wrong."

"This has gone on long enough." Donovan spared the two a final glare before turning to Lestrade. "Can we get back to, oh I don't know, actually solving the case?"

Lestrade seemed close to siding with Sherlock before common sense overtook him. "All right, all right. Whatever is going on is odd but it's not our division. Unlike the anonymous body and bloody dancing men-"

* * *

**A/N:** Oh Merlin, I love writing Sherlock/Anderson arguments :D

I'm a huge fan of the original Sherlock Holmes stories so I'm trying to stuff in as many plot points and re-interpretations of those as possible.

Reviewers get red vines! Well, not really. But you _will_ get a virtual hug/thanks, which is also totally awesome.


	4. The Adventure of the Cardboard Box

**A/N:** Sorry I haven't updated in a bit guys, I've been on vacation. And oh boy do I have plenty of stories about blessing my Deathly Hallows necklace in the Vatican's holy water and praying at the Dark Lord's grave in the London HP Studio Tour, but I expect everyone just wants me to get on with the chapter :D

**General Disclaimer:** After trying and failing over and over again to write with a quill, I can most assuredly state that I am not an HP character. I could still technically belong to the Sherlock universe, but at least we can rule something out. Oh, and I'm not dead or a gazillionaire so I'm unfortunately not Conan Doyle or Rowling. Shame that.

* * *

Harry fidgeted. "This is a really bad idea." He whispered to his wife as she knocked on the door. "Especially while we actually have guests over..."

"It's your own fault for 'erasing' the last tea." She easily replied. "My brothers won't be here for ages and Luna will be fine, she's just babysitting the boys. You know she's been asking us for ages to get some experience with kids before having her own."

"If she can manage those three, nothing will stop her and Rolf." Harry shook his head in amusement as he heard hurried footsteps from inside the flat. He tried to imagine Luna's children, but felt that any speculation was bound to fall short. "Even more of a reason to cut this tea short; wouldn't want to be rude or cause the flat to explode."

"Shush, you. Mrs. Hudson!" Ginny turned to the woman in the open door with a smile. "I'm so sorry we're late."

"Not to worry, not to worry," the landlady ushered the family into her cozy flat which was decorated in shades of pastel and smelling of chocolate and curry, "goodness knows the boys–Sherlock and John, that is–are never on time, and they don't even have the excuse of looking after young children. Speaking of which, where are the dears?"

"A family friend is watching them this afternoon." Harry followed the women inside. "Something smells great."

"Just a bit of tea and biscuits." Mrs. Hudson waved it away even while her smile grew wider. The Potters sat down as their hostess rummaged in the kitchen, calling out her answer. "Nothing fancy, but I am so glad to finally have a sit in. Heaven knows why we haven't had one sooner!"

"That'd be my fault." Harry said as he and Ginny exchanged a quick look, replacing their contented smiles when Mrs. Hudson reentered with a teapot in hand. "A new case at work has been eating up all my time."

"Tish, tosh." Mrs. Hudson bustled around filling their teacups. "Sugar, milk? But rest easy, this kept being put off because of the boys' schedules–Sherlock and John, that is. In and out at all times of the night, and I sometimes don't see Sherlock for days. Living in Baker Street you'll soon learn that you'll only hear his violin and wretched firing practice! Oh not to worry dears, he's quite harmless. But I'm sure you know the type, you said you work for Scotland Yard?"

"Harry's more of a private consultant." Ginny answered, the couple having agreed that this would be the more anonymous while plausible cover job.

"Really?" Their hostess set down the tea things, shooing a bit of invisible dust from the table. "Why, that's almost the same as Sherlock. I'm sure you two will get along swimmingly."

"I'm sure." Harry felt the muscles around his strained smile tighten, but luckily only his wife–who sent him an amused while sympathetic glance–seemed to notice.

"Ginny, you mentioned that you write articles? You must chat with John." Mrs. Hudson continued with fondness in her voice. "He's a doctor by trade but spends most of his time blogging about Sherlock's cases. Oh, there's the doorbell. I swear, if those two were ever on time I'd eat my hat."

As the landlady hurried to the door Ginny mouthed 'Blog?' to her husband. But he only had time to shrug before the new arrivals swept into the room.

Harry couldn't help but immediately tense. It wasn't only his slightly guilty conscience, or the fact that he'd been anxious enough about his neighbours before. The problem was that the sight of the doctor and detective of 221B reconfirmed all of his fears. Though to be fair, even with his automatic military-trained sweep of the surroundings John Watson wasn't overly alarming. There were no bags of worry under his eyes which, coupled with the odd care given to his appearance–clean-shaven face, neatly combed hair, ironed shirt and tie–gave no signs of the man being under undue stress. Indeed, the doctor was most likely not worried and wished to make a good impression on his neighbours, though by the glances of warning he gave his flatmate the former might solely be trying to set a good example. Likely futeless by the looks of it.

For the main reasons for concern all centred around one Sherlock Holmes. As Mrs. Hudson introduced them Holmes–damn, last names hardly work when there was more than one of them–_Sherlock_ was a bundle of nerves, his unkempt appearance and rattled expression making that much clear. But still, that wasn't necessarily cause for alarm. He must have plenty of enemies–the dark shadows of insomnia around his eyes weren't necessarily there because of his new neighbours.

Getting up with his wife, Harry sent the men easy smiles. The doctor's handshake was firm yet ordinary. But the consulting detective's crushing handgrip and the way that his suspicious eyes stared into the auror's––ah, dammit.

Harry's relaxed grin flickered as he sat down. Holmes instantly grabbed the seat next to his, ramming it back with a bit too much force. So the detective knew that something was wrong, and knew that he and Ginny were somehow to blame. But how? Merlin knew that he'd been more than thorough with the dratted memory charms. Holmes _should_ be like Watson and not have the slightest idea that anything was wrong.

"–two consulting detectives." Harry tuned back into the conversation as Mrs. Hudson chatted and poured the newcomers tea. "Imagine that, how exciting!"

Holmes turned to Harry with narrowing eyes. "You said that you worked in Scotland Yard."

"I sometimes consult for them." Harry lied easily. "The consulting firm I work for is, ah, small and rather secretive."

"I've never seen you at the Yard."

Harry matched his stubborn gaze. "That's where the 'secretive' part comes in. I'm sure you can understand. But Mr. Watson, I hear you're a military doctor and blogger?"

"Why, yes." Watson sent Holmes a warning look. "Not in the army any longer, but I now work at a clinic and accompany Sherlock on some of his cases."

Mrs. Hudson seemed puzzled. "I'm sorry dear, but did I mention that John was in the military?"

"I doubt it." Sherlock huffed, glaring at Harry. "Mr. Potter noticed John's military tidiness and his reflexive surveillance of the room."

"Call me Harry." He looked at Holmes interestingly. Maybe this was why the muggle detective was on edge, he must have noticed something to indicate his lost memories.

Holmes' scowl deepened. "Stop doing that!"

Harry blinked, confused. "Do what?"

"_Observing_." Holmes all-but groaned. Watson choked back a burst of laughter.

"Sherlock, you are such a hypocrite." The doctor amusedly shook his head, looking at Harry in interest. "I'm sorry about my flatmate, he gets jumpy. And please call me John and, hmm, could I hypothetically ask if you'd play Cluedo with Sherlock?"

"It's a trap, dearie." Mrs. Hudson took a sip of her tea.

"I'd like to see this." Ginny grinned at her husband's expression before turning to the other men. "Please call me Ginny. Oh, and I apologise for any noise our children must have been making these last few weeks."

"Don't worry, we're used to noise." John returned the smile while Harry and Sherlock settled in on glaring at each other. "You have two kids-"

"Three." Ginny corrected. "Of a sort. Jamie and Al are ours, but Teddy is our godchild and practically lives with us."

"Ah, the one with crazy hair colours."

"That'd be him." She said cheerfully. "It's a phase he's going through."

"Such adorable children." Mrs. Hudson broke in. "Where are they today?"

"Just upstairs. An old friend of ours asked to babysit them." Harry at last turned from Sherlock. "But Teddy's gran will be by to pick him up in a bit."

"So his parents are deceased." Sherlock said with a narrowing of his eyes. John and Mrs. Hudson gave long-suffering groans. "He's like your oldest child, and you were named his godfather when you were young, barely an adult. You must have been experienced beyond your age; a tragedy occurred, something which made you terrified for this boy."

"Sherlock..." John warned, but the detective didn't take heed and merely leaned forward.

"You keep rubbing your scar." Sherlock tilted his head, the ends of his scarf coming out from the folds. "A nervous, reflexive movement. That's your tell, but why? And why do you associate it with-"

"Mr. Holmes." Ginny interrupted with firm lightness. "As fascinating as my husband's faded scar is, I'm terribly interested in your cases. I'm rather fascinated by detective stories."

Harry sent his wife a grateful look. John chimed in before Sherlock was able to open his mouth. "Ginny, I wouldn't let Sherlock talk about his cases. As you can see he has a problem knowing _when to keep quiet_." He glared at his flatmate for good measure, mouthing 'be polite'.

"I'm sure the tales would be fascinating." Ginny looked at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow. "I wonder, what can you tell about me?"

"I don't think that's–"

"I wouldn't-"

"Not at afternoon tea–" Harry, John and Mrs. Hudson spoke up as one, similar notes of alarm in their voices.

"She asked." Sherlock said with a small smirk, pushing his seat forward as he narrowed his eyes in thought.

"You remember we discussed this." John hissed, but his friend paid him no mind.

"Until recently you played sports as an occupation." Sherlock scooted closer in concentration.

Ginny's eyebrow raised higher. "Well done."

"Yes, very well done," John broke in rather frantically, "now shall we–? Mrs. Hudson–"

"Perhaps tennis, though your knees say otherwise." The detective continued, frowning in thought. "A natural tomboy, you're the youngest of several children. Mainly boys but you're all exceptionally close. Even more so since something–a tragedy, how peculiar–took one of them from you-"

"That's enough." Harry said quietly, heat in his voice as he held his wife's slightly shivering hand.

Sherlock blinked, seeming to come out of a trance. He turned from Harry's and John's furious gazes to Ginny's pale expression.

A moment's pause. "I–I apologise." The muggle detective said with slight abashment, though he barely let the glares from around the table affect him. "As John so aptly says I need to consider my words before I speak. You have my condolences, Mrs. Potter."

"It's Ginny." She said, a strained smile once more drifting across her face. Her hand remained in her husband's as any further conversation was cut-off by a sudden commotion in the corridor.

"Jamie, keep away from the wrackspurts." A dreamy voice sung out from the hallway. Harry and Ginny exchanged another glance, the latter biting her lip in true amusement as the shadow passed from her eyes. "Yoo hoo, hello? Teddy, that shade of purple calls out the nargles. It really suits you."

A playful barber's knock rapped the door.

Ginny stood up. "I'm sorry, that must be our friend who's babysitting. She'd only come down if it was urgent, can I..."

"Of course." The older woman smiled and headed over to open the door. "More than enough tea for all. Hello dear, I'm Mrs. Hudson. Jamie, Teddy, how cute you two look today! Ah, the little one's sound asleep, so precious. I have biscuits somewhere here. Don't stand in the doorway, come now sit, sit. Plenty of room by Sherlock here–scoot over dear, John help me with these chairs."

Luna Lovegood looked as though she had been swept up in a tornado. Blonde hair in a messy bun, blue shirt hanging off her shoulder and a tie dye skirt reaching to her ankles, Harry thought that she seemed positively normal compared to usual. His companions didn't seem to agree, but after he'd seen that his sons were merely hyper but all right his attention turned to the most surprising part of the entrance.

"Hi hi!" Jamie shuffled between his parents, before turning to look up at the mystified Sherlock in awe. "Where skully?"

The muggle detective almost seemed shocked. "How do you know ab-"

"Luna!" Harry interrupted quickly. "I'm sorry if the boys have been too much trouble."

"Hmm?" Luna said in surprise, shifting the box in her hands so to hold both it and Al. "They haven't been trouble at all. Teddy is quite the wrackspurt catcher."

"Yah." Teddy agreed proudly with a toothy grin. "I'm a good pouncer."

"I'm sure you are Teddy Bear." Harry grinned at his godson's protests while he looked at the cardboard box in his old friend's hands. "So, what seems to be the problem Luna?"

"This came for you." In the next moment Harry blinked and found said container in his hands. "I was making some sandwiches for the boys when, poof! This appeared in the fireplace. It seems that the Snorkacks left a gift for you."

"Wrackspurts, Nargles, Snorkacks?" Sherlock said with a scowl, eyeing the new woman with almost as much loathing as he did the children.

"Luna's eccentric." Ginny responded simply before turning to stare quizzically at the box in her husband's hands. "Sorry, do you mind-"

"Not at all, let me fetch you some scissors." Mrs. Hudson plucked one from a shelf in the corner. "The boys have brought far stranger things to afternoon tea: I haven't forgotten that mangled arm, dearies. Ah, there you are."

"Thanks." Harry set the package on the table and ran the sharp edge down the top, serrating the tape. In a few moments he lifted the flaps back, the confused expression on his face only growing. He lifted out a small book with a post-it note on the front.

Ginny's eyes widened as she peered at the novel. "Is, is that-"

"Yeah." Harry said numbly, turning the old copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard over in his hands. "It must be a joke."

"That got through our wards?" His wife whispered in his ear, taking the note from him. "It's apparently from some Rosemary Tajim and, what does this mean: 'I owe you a fall–The Guardian Seven'?"

"What!" Sherlock cried, making Harry drop the book as he spun to pluck the paper from Ginny, startling everyone in the room but an excited Jamie and a dreamy Luna. "That's the exact wording?"

"Yes, who is she?"

"Someone." Sherlock replied on automatic, picking up the dropped book to flick through it with deft fingers. "Parchment, not paper." He muttered, staring at the Table of Contents. "Handwritten, not printed. Titles resemble those of fairy tales but fail to draw from any particular culture. Completely nonsensical, especially the doodles."

"Doodles?" Ginny didn't seem to mind that Sherlock failed to understand the concept of private property. She peered over to the book, her mouth dropping open in the process. "Oh bloody hell."

"Language, Ginny." Luna said dreamily, staring at the fidgeting John. "The wrackspurts are sensitive."

"Harry." The redhead hissed, grabbing the book from the protesting detective and shoving it at her husband. "Look at this."

The man-who-conquered took the open book in his hands, his eyes quickly coming to rest on what had unsettled Ginny. And though he had faced a cerberus, basilisk, cornish pixies and dragons, he felt himself pale at the dark red scratch-like marks on the page. There were no words, no dancing men, nothing which almost anyone would find overly alarming.

For on the otherwise clean white page and neat dark printing, the mark of the Deathly Hallows stared up at him. Yet instead of the line symbolising the Elder Wand there was only a jagged lightning bolt.

* * *

**A/N:** Harry and Sherlock have incredibly similar jobs. Both aurors and detectives have to be experts in body language, bluffing, and piecing together a full story from seemingly scattered, innocuous clues. So while Harry's observation skills might seem a bit OCC, they're in fact a rather natural evolution of his character. The man becomes Head Auror for Merlin's sake. He's not an idiot and is almost certainly a skilled detective. Even the HP books gave plenty of examples where Harry jumped to some remote conclusion (sometimes even before Hermione, who dealt with logic rather than instinct) and ended up being entirely right.

That's not to say that Harry is a genius like Sherlock, but I love the idea of these two battling it out in a game of wits to see who can uncover the other's secrets first. They're both too stubborn to work together or admit being wrong, and while one has the advantage of magic the other is mindboggingly brilliant. So this couldn't possibly end well.


	5. The Red Headed League

**A/N:** Small warning, the lovely Irene Adler makes an appearance this chapter. I'm totally not to blame for any of her–inappropriate–comments.

**General Disclaimer:** I bet the Weasley Twins would have loved to think of a variation of 'The Red-Headed League' con themselves. Too bad they weren't Arthur Conan Doyle. Nor am I any of them or Rowling, by the way.

* * *

Gawain Robards resembled a lion as much as Rufus Scrimgeour had looked like a cuddly puppy. The current Head of Aurors was certainly terrifying, but his scariness snuck in and pounced when one least expected it.

Neither was he much like a snake. To true Slytherins, Robards' commendable sneakiness, manipulations and blackmailing skills were see-through. With lions and snakes out of the picture, many of the new aurors would pick up on his intelligence and proclaim that he was more bird-like than reptilian. His once coppery red hair–that was losing the battle to grey–surrounded his head in a feathery cloud. Adding to this effect, his piercing eyes and beaky nose stuck out amongst his otherwise ordinary, whilst tall and peaky features.

Yet to his comrades' great frustration, there was something intrinsically (though indefinably) wrong with his resemblance to an eagle. In fact, every single animal nickname failed to stick. It had become a matter of much chagrin to the aurors under his command, for they took the lack of a viable tongue-in-cheek name as a personal and professional failure. Many a day was spent with dictionaries and thesauruses propped up within their field notebooks. Zoologists and bird-watching afficiendoes were discreetly questioned in true undercover style, yet it all came to nothing. The department betting pool continued to rise to Malfoy-wealthy heights, and it was a sign of their desperation that Ron Weasley almost won with his insistence that Luna Scamander's testimony of Robards' 'compatibility' with the invisible Crumple-Horned Snorkacks was completely valid. Office rumour had it that he only withdrew his bet after a few pointed words with his brilliant yet succinctly scary pregnant wife.

Thus, this uneasy nickname-less administration continued on, until one day which would have been decidedly unremarkable, if not for Auror Susan Bones excitedly jerking upright and staring at Robards with new eyes.

"A honey-badger!" She couldn't help but squeal, cleanly driving the morning meeting to a halt.

Robards set down the file folders with a plump. No expression crossing his features. "Pardon, Bones?"

"A–" Susan started rapidly before grinding to a stop. Her eyes widened as she remembered where she was and who she was talking to. She swallowed nervously. "Your animal, sir. Sorry sir, but I just thought of it. Sir."

Ron started snickering as Robards scowled. "Spit it out without any 'sirs'. Weasley, shut it unless you want the Surrey hinkypuff assignment."

Ron shut it. Susan's anxiousness grew as she stumbled out her epiphany. "Sorry Si–erm, sorry. While sitting here I realised you resemble a, well, a honey-badger. That's a good thing! Sir, really. You aren't as showy as a lion, eagle or snake because you seem friendly. And–" having gotten into her recital she stumbled on the last words, "and, erm–"

"So I'm like a honey-badger." Robards helpfully supplied. Susan could only meekly nod her head. "Obviously. Now before Bones collects on the 'secret' interdepartmental betting pool, how about we return to doing our jobs?"

Thus was the issue with Robards–no one could predict his actions. The aurors were on tender-hooks for a week, with Susan in particular constantly looking over her shoulder in sudden panic. But this time it was all for nothing. While a prank on his morning coffee could set off Robards for hours, a conspiratorial bet on his 'animal representative' barely made a blip on his radar.

Therein lay the confusion on this particular Thursday.

* * *

"_Weasley_!"

Ron gave a loud curse as his name was barked through the office. Unfortunately, since this curse wasn't of the magical sort, it didn't stop him from unceremoniously toppling his precariously balanced chair over.

"Bloody..." the redhead muttered as he wincingly sat up from the floor.

"WEASLEY!" Robards again yelled, carrying over the aurors' snickering at their friend's expense.

"I'm coming, I'm coming." Ron rubbed his neck as he stood, leaving the chair where it lay.

Heading to the Head Auror's office he silently contemplated what could be the problem. His paperwork on Dalloway had been late, but Robards wouldn't be _this_ angry about that. The new advance on the Dancing Men case was still preliminary so that couldn't be it either. So the most probable reason for Robards' tantrum was, as usual, the typical cause. Great. Wonderful.

Ron didn't bother suppressing his sigh. Damn it, he was going to kill his partner one of these days. So what if the git was his brother-in-law, best friend, and the 'man-who-conquered'? He was far too high maintenance, and _why_ did he always go for lunch right when he'd be out of the line of fire? Potter was officially a bloody seer.

"Weasley." Robards stencilled his fingers together as Ron cautiously walked into his office. "Took you long enough. Close the door."

The door shut with barely a whisper.

"Potter's at lunch?" A jerky nod. "That one's instincts puts the rest of ours to shame–too bad he doesn't have the common sense to match. Come on Weasley, sit. We have things to discuss."

Ron sat. He kept to the edge of his seat so as to enable a quick escape. Robards leaned forward to stare at his auror. "Any movement on the Dancing Men case?"

"Nothing definitive." Ron let out a small sigh of relief, while still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"And by 'movement' I mean," Robards continued conversationally, "why the galloping goblins did Potter decide to break into Scotland Yard?"

Ron froze.

"Err..." He was going to kill Potter. "Are you sure it was–"

"Half a dozen of their personnel were obliviated." Robards spoke drily, eyes losing none of their piercing quality. "All were involved in a series of muggle murders which mirror our killer."

"Ah." Since 'deny deny deny' failed miserably, it was time for damage control. "Harry must've gotten a lead then. You know how he is–"

"–a maverick who views laws as guidelines?" Robards finished with tense idleness.

"Err..."

Robards' lips thinned in an uncanny impression of Minerva McGonagall. He leaned towards the flinching auror as his voice dropped to a whisper. "Trespassing, thievery, high treason, stomping on the Statute of Secrecy and making a mockery of this force. Tell me you didn't know what Potter was up to with a straight face."

"I didn't." Ron immediately supplied. Hermione had long ago informed him of what 'plausible deniability' entailed. Harry and he had taken to it like fish to water.

"Merlin you're an awful liar." Robards growled, a line beginning to pulse on his forehead. "You two are working the case together. Do you mean to tell me you didn't bother asking Potter how he got classified Scotland Yard files? No Weasley, I'm not blind, I could tell you had a lead. Go ahead and entertain me trying to wiggle out of this."

Ron gaped for a few seconds. He considered reminding his boss that when it came to Harry Freaking Potter one just had to accept the impossible. But he figured this response would mean that he'd soon be dodging curses. "I'd assumed he'd gotten the information through his connections. Sir." Not that said connections were entirely legal, per se, but it'd be best not to mention that.

"I see." Robards snarled, his annoyance barely suppressed. "Why don't you go and find Potter? We need to _discuss_ what I found in The Guardian this morning, and he needs to inform us how the bloody hell he broke into Scotland Yard!"

'I'm sure it was a sight easier than robbing Gringotts.' Ron couldn't help but think. He erased his amused grin at Robards' glare.

* * *

Ron scowled at his brother. Said brother continued resorting the Skiving Snackboxes.

"I know that _you_ know where he is." Ron gritted out.

"Or I don't." George replied simply before turning to peer into the crowd. "OI! You in the red, put that back or–"

POW!

"Never mind then." George shrugged and went back to the shelves. "Buggy little shoplifters. Can't say I didn't try to warn him about the telescope punches."

Ron took a cursory glance over but refused to be distracted from his quest. "Tell me where that git is."

"Course I will. Except that, wait a sec, I don't know where 'that git' is." The storeowner mimicked back with a grin. "Try Gin."

"She says he's hiding from my wrath." There was a twinge of pride in the taller but younger redhead's voice.

"Uh huh."

"I can be wrathful!" Ron protested, rightly judging his brother's expression that he was doubtful of this turn of phrase.

"Sure you can, sure you can." George replied nonchalantly while moving onto the cursed candy, pulling some protesting teenagers away from the portable swamp in the process. "How do you know Harry's even hiding from you? He wouldn't know that Robards' spitting mad."

"Percy tipped him off." Ron said sullenly. "The git has blackmail on him, so he wanted to put in a favour."

Assorted customers in the crowded store jumped as the lights began to flash orange as red confetti fell from the ceiling. The Weasley brothers barely noticed a difference, though Ron did idly think that it was odd there were no accompanying explosions.

George nodded wisely, though the effect was somewhat ruined as he grabbed a few pygmy puffs who had escaped in the confetti. "Ah, the firewhisky and confunding concoction incident? Always knew it'd be a mistake to mix Perce with karaoke. Bloody banshee, that one."

"Where. Is. He." Ron huffed, once more refusing to be side-lined.

"I. Don't. Know." George answered with barely a twinge of annoyance, walking around his running customers to place the puffs back in their cage. "ABERCROMBIE! Can you renew the locking charm on this? Also, let's make it polka dotted. Easier on the eye."

"Aye, aye." A big eared, rather short sales assistant ran up. "Oh and boss? The Missus is calling for ya. Was right angry that one. Shouting something about salamanders?"

"Ah, right. Thanks." George's smile dipped and paled. He quickly turned to Ron. "Say brother of mine, you still need a hand finding Harry?"

"So you can hide from your wife." Ron sighed, not even flinching as a neon pink fanged frisbee whizzed past his ear. "All right, fine. Out of morbid curiosity, what'd you do this time?"

"Need to know, Ronnikins. Need to know." George said as he rapidly ushered them towards the floo. He called out behind him. "I'll be out for a bit. Euan, watch the store! Create as much chaos as possible; remind me why I hired you."

"Right on it." The assistant waved as his boss and brother disappeared. A slow grin spread across Euan's face as he speculatively eyed the merchandise and innocent customers ripe for destruction–and canary creams.

Mounds and mounds of canary creams.

* * *

"Wotcher." Teddy said happily as the two brothers stepped out of the fireplace. He took the sight of the Weasleys as his cue to turn his hair neon red.

"Teddy!" George cried out happily, ignoring Ron's piercing glance around for his best friend. "Mate, wonderful prank last week. Beautiful, just beautiful."

"I don't know what you're talking about." The young metamorphamagus said without a moment's pause and barely a hint of a smile.

"Perfect answer." George gleefully wiped away a tear. "Just like I taught you."

"Err," Teddy hesitated, "Harry taught me that."

Ron snorted. "George was testing you, mate. Nice try though."

George wrapped an arm around the crest-fallen boy. "Don't worry, it was a brilliant plan. The way the gnomes dog-piled Bill mid-family dinner was a thing of beauty!"

Teddy couldn't help but smirk. "Yeah, well, he didn't want Vicky and I hanging out."

"Bill had it coming." George nodded his head in agreement. "He's gotten far too high-strung in his old age."

"What does that make me then?" An amused voice sounded from the doorway.

"Andy!" George practically galloped to the older woman, kissing her hand extravagantly. "Why, like you could ever be anything less than an angel. A _true_ thing of beauty!"

"I'm old enough to be your mother." Andromeda Tonks rolled her eyes at the man's shenanigans while Teddy made a face at the 'yucky kissing'. "Speaking of which, how is Molly?"

Teddy immediately stopped being grossed out and looked excited. "Does she have any more treacle tart? Her's are the best!"

Andromeda gave a world-weary sigh while tugging herself away from George. "Blame Harry for his obsession with those things."

"I'll ask mum if she has any left." Ron grinned while his brother chatted with Teddy about possible pranks. "But that gi–_Harry's_ the reason we came over. I've been trying to track him down for auror business, have you seen him?"

"No, sorry." Andromeda frowned. "You couldn't reach him at all? That's strange, is he all right?"

"He's fine." Ron scowled. "Or he will be until I catch up with him."

An understanding look crossed the older witch's expression. "Ah, Harry's hiding from you. What did he do this time? He wouldn't have to break into the Ministry, so was in Gringotts again?"

"Try Scotland Yard." Ron groaned.

Andromeda smiled, before realising that the auror wasn't joking. "Wait, do you mean he actually broke into Scotland Yard?"

"Apparently."

"_The_ Scotland Yard?"

"How many of them are there?"

"How am I supposed to know!" Andromeda bit her lip and Teddy looked over at them curiously. Her voice lowered. "_Never_ let my grandson know about this. Understand? In his phase of imitating Harry he almost jumped out of a Gringotts cart looking for dragons! I don't want him copying this."

"My lips are sealed." Ron rapidly replied to the witch's menacing look, even while his lips actually twitched into a smile. "So–you haven't seen Harry."

"Sorry." She apologised, her voice returning to its usual volume. "I assume you've already tried Ginny, George, and your parents?"

"Not to mention Percy, Bill, my wife, and the entire Ministry." Ron wearily rubbed his nose. "I'm torn between scouring around Britain or portkeying Charlie in Romania."

"Considering he's 'Harry Freaking Potter', it'd likely be best for him to come to you." Andromeda advised sardonically, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder. "I'll let you know if I hear anything."

* * *

Molly Hooper's eyes widened as she spotted the man in the doorway. Or more specifically, she spotted his boyish smile and suddenly felt much more aware of her lack of make-up and messily pulled-back hair. She groaned while hastily covering up the corpse she'd been examining.

"Hello, how can I help you?"

"Nice to meet you." Short, dark and handsome answered as he walked towards her. "Harry Potter, I'm part of the Auror Unit."

Her eyes widened as he flashed an id card. He's Special Forces? Oh god, oh god, please let her not make a fool of herself, and please let him be single. "Which case are you working on?"

"We're liasoning with Detective Inspector Lestrade on the serial murders." Harry said, glancing around the morgue interestingly. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"Forensic pathologist Hooper. Molly Hooper. Christ, I sound like James Bond! Just call me Molly, everyone does. All my friends that is and–" she flushed as she noticed her rambling, "–sorry Mr. Potter. I keep letting my mouth run away from me, and here you are on an urgent matter!"

He looked as though he was biting back a laugh. "No worries Molly, it's not that urgent. But please call me Harry. I suppose I shouldn't call you M?"

Molly tried to fight back her mortification. "Yes, well, how can I help?"

"I was wondering about the latest victim of the Dancing Men case." Harry shook his head when Molly opened her mouth to reply. "Don't worry, I know it's too soon for the preliminary autopsy report to be done. I was just hoping to get a, well, a sneak preview? If it's not too much trouble of course." The boyish grin came out again and, good lord could he do perfect puppy dog eyes. Considering that shade of green it was no wonder.

"No problem." Molly said lightly, pulling down the sheet on the corpse she'd been working on. "Though we don't even have a name for him yet."

Harry peered at the head, his forehead scrunching in thought. "Is he like the other victims, with cyphers on his hand and no obvious sign of death?"

"Yes, it's most peculiar." Molly took up her pen again. "Greg–I mean, Lestrade is convinced its poison, but the tox screen's come back negative."

"It could be a rarer poison." He said absently, still examining the body. "Still though, no discolouration."

"Not to mention his petrified expression. If I didn't know better I'd say he died of fright."

"Hmm." Harry hummed noncommittally, circling around the body. "I've seen stranger things. By the way, I hope I'm not keeping you from your flat search. My partner hates it when I try and make us work through lunch."

Molly dropped the pen. As it clinked to the floor she stared at the detective in open mouthed disbelief and deja vu. "How–how did you know I was looking for a flat?"

"What?" Harry looked up quizzically. As he realised what he'd say he smiled, embarrassed, and ran a hand through his hair. "Shoot, sorry about that. I didn't realise how it sounded."

"How. Did. You. Know?" Molly repeated anxiously, wondering if every cute man she met was destined to remind her of Sherlock.

"Oh, um," Harry waved his hand vaguely, "just silly observations? You seem a bit stressed and–sorry for mentioning this–you haven't washed your hair. Which wouldn't be unusual in an important job like yours, but then there's a real estate sheet on the counter with a few flats circled. So, I kind of guessed you were between houses? Sorry, I guess I'm in 'detective mode' today."

Molly closed her eyes, took a calming breath, and reopened them. "Don't take this the wrong way, but are you gay or a high functioning sociopath?"

It was Harry's turn to gape. "Ah, no. To both. What?"

"Good." She finally relaxed. "Then we'll get along splendidly. Just remind me to introduce you to Sherlock Holmes sometime."

"That's what you meant." A look of understanding crossed his face. "My family and I just moved into Baker Street, Holmes is in the flat next to ours."

Molly contemplated this odd coincidence–at least, she did, until her mind focused on two words. 'My family'. A rapid glance to his hand confirmed that, yes, there was a wedding ring. "Drat. Why is everyone gay, sociopathic, or married!"

Harry held back a snigger in realising her train of thought. "Wait, _that's_ what you meant. I'm flattered, but I'm married with kids."

"Of course you are." Molly gave a tired sigh while refocusing her attention on the body. "Let me know if you have any friends who fit my criteria. I'm not too picky."

"They just have to be straight, non-sociopathic, and single?" Harry answered before turning back to the task at hand. "I might have a mate like that. Tell me, how do you feel about someone who works with terrifying beasts?"

"Is he tall, dark, handsome, and not missing any limbs from these ferocious animals?"

"All appendages are counted for, but he is a redhead."

She shrugged. "Why not."

* * *

Sherlock glanced at the woman's reflection in a steel ornament hanging from the wall. He blatantly ignored the waiter who, after a few silent curses, gave up on trying to take his order. "You changed your hair."

"_You changed your hair?_ What a waste of an opening question." Said woman swept into the seat next to the detective. Her pout shone between her new ravishingly red locks. "Quite disappointing. Would it have been too much to say, 'Good god, you're alive?' 'How did you find me?' 'Are you naked underneath that trench coat?'"

Another passing waiter overheard the last and proceeded to choke and drop a lentil pea soup. Neither Sherlock Holmes nor Irene Adler paid any mind to the man's gawking stare.

"Blonde would suit your complexion far more than red." Sherlock at last looked up, his expression resolutely uninterested. "As for your questions: since you've never stopped texting me I'm hardly shocked you're alive; a complete imbecile could find me a block from my flat; and your clothes situation is even more blaringly obvious."

"Oh, how I've missed you and your sexy intellect." Irene leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table while arching an eyebrow–gaining an appreciative look from the unsubtle waiter lurking two tables over. "Shame you never replied to my messages, I could have taken you ages ago. But how did you figure out my lack of clothing? Am I showing?"

"The goosebumps across your neck." Sherlock twitched slightly as Irene stretched further towards him, licking her lips. "Lack of tights, your coat is thin enough that–certain shapes–are visible, and the most obvious: that you're you."

"Clever boy." Irene crossed her legs, letting the top one come to rest on a fidgeting Sherlock. "Figuring out that I know _exactly_ what I'm doing. The only question is, do you want to put on a show?"

SPLAT!

As she uncrossed her legs and gave another waiter a view, complete chaos erupted. The resulting flying ice cream sundae splattered on a Louis Vuitton purse, allowing its owner's piercing screams of dismay and threatening lawsuits to almost entirely mask another patron's entrance.

"Sherlock I–oh. God." John Watson stumbled into a table, barely taking in the blushing waiters or furious customers. His copy of The Guardian fell to the floor, forgotten. "Oh god."

"Finally." Sherlock huffed, using the distraction to slide away from his flirtatious companion. Irene's annoyed pout instantly returned. "John, when my text says something is urgent, it means it's _urgent_ and you should come _immediately_."

"But she's–she's–" John stuttered, pointing a shaking hand at the resident 'not-beheaded-nor-even-nearly-headless' dominatrix.

"Alive?" Irene tried, smirking at the doctor as he grew more agitated and disbelieving.

"Does anyone stay dead these days–wait, I know, the Grim Reaper's on vacation!" John at last ground out, forgetting what he had been about to tell Sherlock. "Or is there a zombie apocalypse I should know about?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock scoffed. "I'll never understand your preoccupation with zombies. The number of problems with that type of invasion alone..."

"It's scientifically improbable: no bacteria to produce 'zombies' is probable," Irene interrupted, counting off the reasons with her fingers, "disintegration of the brain would result in mental and bodily decomposition. Even if they were able to move, there's no feasible reason why they'd want to feast on brains rather than other meat. A pandemic is a far more likely apocalyptic scenario."

"Exactly!" Sherlock looked at Irene with some relief. "So: dominatrix and macabre anti-conspiracy theorist?"

"I even sing a fair opera." Irene winked suggestively. "I can make my audience's toes positively curl..."

"It was a joke." John cut in, his irritation surmounting his intrinsic reflex to run the bloody hell away from a dead person. Not to mention how dangerous she was and, and was she already feeling Sherlock up? Good lord this woman got under his skin–though not literally, of course. "Pardon me for trying to overcome shock, hurt and betrayal by joking about this!"

"When you found out _I_ wasn't dead you punched me in the nose." Sherlock grumpily reminded him.

"And elsewhere." John nodded firmly, mentally making a note that if his best friend gave his disappearing act another go a bloody nose would be the least of his problems.

"Elsewhere?" Irene perked up. She eyed John appraisingly, making him step back with a wince.

"None of your concern." Sherlock spoke with a touch of wariness. "Nor is this remotely relevant to the main issue."

"The issue being that someone's not actually dead?" John said drily as he cautiously took a seat next to Sherlock.

"Hardly." Sherlock seemed disappointed at his friend's lack of observation. "The dancing men."

John blinked. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, reopened them and realised that Sherlock wasn't joking. "The dancing men. You mean the murders?"

"Exactly."

"Right." John made another note to stop checking his texts. They always either led to confusion or gun shots. "Sure, that's what I wanted to tell you about, but what does this woman's reappearance have to do with anything?"

"_The_ Woman." Sherlock scowled at Irene's coo. "The two are related because there is _no such thing as coincidence_."

"Only serendipity." Irene piped in with a grin. "Though I do like to generate my own luck. It's remarkable how far a touch of manipulation and lubricant can take you."

"Too much information!" John rapidly interrupted as the dominatrix smirked. "Why don't you explain how you escaped from the terrorists?"

"The same terrorists that you lied to me about?" Sherlock drawled, clearly enjoying John's flush enough to put the case on hold.

"Blame Mycroft!" John protested even while his sudden embarrassment grew. "He–"

"Sherlock saved me." Irene succinctly cut in, lounging back with the look of a cat that's caught the canary. The grin grew to Cheshire-like proportions as John turned his incredulousness to the sheepish detective.

_"When? How?! Christ, you actually are a compulsive liar, aren't you."_

_"It was a simple text John."_

_"You never text her back."_

_"Well I did this time. It was luck–"_

_"–you just said you don't believe in coincidence."_

_"I don't! This is about luck and educational guesses–"_

_"–you're going to admit to a love affair next, aren't you."_

_"Please be serious."_

_"Good god, you are, aren't you! I knew this was suspicious."_

_"John..."_

_"You should have told me! I–"_

_"–nothing's going on."_

_"Except dinner dates."_

_"There are no dinner dates. I never texted her back. Ever!"_

_"..."_

_"..."_

_"..."_

_"Except that one time with the terrorists–"_

_"–I knew it! Compulsive liar!"_

Amidst the shouting and bewildering not-argument, only the unsubtly gawking waiter (only having just recovered from a situation which had scarred him and half the restaurant for life) noticed the female member of the small group roll her eyes at the juvenile antics. He also noticed her lengthy legs and fiery crimson curls, but that was beside the point. Still, this waiter was not gifted enough in observation to notice the amused quirk of her lips and an anticipatory glint betraying her true emotions.

* * *

**A/N:** My good friend L is inadvertently to thank for the honey-badger idea. I kind of took the thought of bloodthirsty Hufflepuffs and ran!

It was inevitable that I'd do a play on the red-headed league with the army of Weasleys. Also, I feel so sorry for Molly's lack of luck in her love life. She's such a sweetie but keeps falling for the worst people. So I think I'll help her out a wee bit.

This won't be a romance fic but there are a few pairings I want to write. I have one ship that I _will not_ budge on (It's under a fidelius spell so shhh, it's a secret!), still, the rest are up for debate. So let me know your guys' preferences!


	6. The Adventure of the Devil's Foot

**A/N:** Thank you everyone for giving me your opinions on possible ships! I don't want to give anything away, but quite a few of you will be very happy. However, I plan on focusing on the drama for a bit so any fluffy romance will unfortunately be awhile away.

**General Disclaimer:** You've figured out my secret! I'm not Rowling, but I am an Unspeakable. A few years back there was an incident with a time turner and phoenix tears and, long story short, I ended up in the 1800s. Unfortunately, my only muggle talent is writing and I had to eat. So I 'might-of-sort-of-maybe' created a pseudonym and wrote the greatest detective stories the world has ever known!

Erm, surprise?

But then another witch turned me into a next. It's all right though, I got better.

* * *

When Ron finally ran into Harry (Of _course_ he'd be back at the Auror Office. Had he hidden beneath his cloak or something?), he'd been expecting an apology. An explanation. A cuppa or–even better–black coffee as an apology.

Was a bit of grovelling for forgiveness too much to ask? But no, the bloody idiot didn't even realise there was anything wrong!

"Mate, where've you been?" Harry swivelled around in his chair. He noticed the redhead's disheveled appearance in confusion. "Hold that, what've you been doing?"

"Looking. For. You." Ron said heatedly, resisting the urge to start up a rant.

"Oh, sorry." He scratched his head. "I was following up a lead–"

"–in Scotland Yard?"

Harry raised his eyebrows at the growl. "St. Barts. Remind me to tell Charlie about a cute pathologist later. But on the case, Goyle's dead. Same MO as the others; cyphers, Death Eater family and all."

"There's been a–change– here too." Ron valiantly tried roping in his frustration. As much as he'd like to, hexing Harry wasn't going to solve his problems. "Two pieces of bad news in fact. First, the dancing men serial killings were leaked to The Guardian."

"What?" Harry yelped, grabbing the newspaper his friend held out. The be-speckled auror stilled for a second before groaning. "Please, please dear Merlin tell me it's not on page seven."

"It's the lead story. Actually, it might be continued on that page." Ron gave 'the git' a weird look. "Don't tell me how you knew that, I don't want to know. But this means there was a leak. Hopefully it was on the muggle side rather than ours."

"Since it's not a wizarding paper it probably wasn't us." Harry didn't look up from his skimming. "Scotland Yard is still on their theory that they were poisoned–something about 'devil's foot', great name. Since that was mentioned in the story there's even more reason it wasn't our department. Tell me your other news isn't as bad?"

Ron merely glared rather than say a word. Met by silence Harry finally glanced up–though flinched back at his friend's venomous stare. He looked at him questioningly. The glare only grew.

"Err, what did I say?" Harry dropped the newspaper, looking decidedly uncomfortable. "It's not about Ginny, right?"

His only answer was an ominous snort.

"Teddy's prank on Hermione's hair? Which I had absolutely nothing to do with…" Harry drifted off as the glare didn't lessen. "Okay, not that then. Or––oh."

"Yes, oh."

"Scotland Yard?" Glare. "Damn. I'm sorry?" Incensed glare. With a hint of homicidal promise. "Ron, I was going for plausible deniability. Plausible. Deniability."

The redhead's fingers twitched toward his wand. Harry scooted his chair back against the desk as far as he could.

"Just a guess here," 'the-man-who-might-not-live-much-longer''s voice took on an appeasing tone as his best friend gripped the wooden rod, "but this isn't because I didn't tell you?"

A grunt.

"That means yes?" When he wasn't hexed he assumed it was right. "Then why are you angr–oh. Damn it."

"Exactly." Ron gritted out. "Mind telling me how you disappeared _right before_ Robards grilled me on your stunt?"

"Instincts?" Harry gave a nervous half-smile. This dropped as he found a wand pointed at his face. "Oh shi—Ron! I was jokin–"

"_Tarantallegra!_"

The spell went flying as Harry put his aforementioned instincts to work by vaulting over his desk's side. His own wand was drawn and firing mere seconds afterwards. From this point, it was inevitable that the Ministry floor (crowded with paranoid and trigger-happy aurors) would be levelled to charred office remains in roughly the time it took to shout _Quidditch_.

By the time Robards raced out to survey the damage and his still-fighting underlings, the two at the centre of the chaos had forged a shaky alliance. They did, after all, wish to escape with all their limbs intact.

Plausible deniability did have its place. But being supported in one's alibi by a horde of autograph-ready Diagon Alley fans mere minutes after the destruction of the auror offices? That, as Harry and Ron had learned at an early age (this time without Hermione's help), was priceless.

* * *

Inspector Gregory Lestrade didn't bother looking up when he heard his office door open. Nor did he make a move at the entering, hurried footsteps. "There is such a thing as knocking, you know."

A newspaper was dropped on top of his case files. "This takes priority."

Lestrade's gaze flickered up at Donovan's and Anderson's serious expressions, before glancing back down and opening The Guardian with a sigh. "Let me guess: I'm not going to like whatever's in here."

"There's a leak." Anderson said simply, his scowl prominent. Donovan nodded in agreement.

"It's the-freak's doing, I'm sure of it." She put her two cents in after hesitating, though she ignored Lestrade's reprimanding stare. "Probably thought it'd make things more 'exciting'."

"Holmes is professional–" Lestrade's attempt to defend Sherlock dwindled slightly under the others' incredulous stares "–well, he wouldn't talk to the press. He likes solving cases for the puzzle of it, he doesn't care about media attention."

Anderson snorted. "How'd you explain that blog of his? Not to mention the Reichenbach mess or, good lord, that ridiculous hat."

"The blog is John's, it has nothing to do with…" but neither of them were listening. For apparently the officers had decided that exchanging their Sherlock horror stories was a far more productive use of their time. Right around their mutual moaning of the consulting detective's outing of their affair, Lestrade began to get the hint that they'd forgotten they were not alone in the room.

"–the type of cologne? What the bloody–"

"–and in front of everyone! The nerve of–"

"–should do the same to him and his little 'flatmate'–"

Lestrade tried to block out the groaning and return to the headline. Sure, it was pointless to hope that this entire experience wouldn't be scarring, but it'd probably be best to let the two officers have it out in relative privateness. He winced as the rants turned to screaming. Yes, it was definitely best for them to get it over with. How long had they been holding this in? He'd have to let Sherlock and John know about these revenge plans and—bloody hell, was that even anatomically possible?

Ignoring Donovan's sailor curses and Anderson's remarkably creative threats, Lestrade folded over the newspaper. He gazed down at the headline story, convincing himself to focus on the words and not his insane comrades:

**_DANCING MEN MURDERS: Londoners Scared To Death_**

_~ Contemporary Affairs Reporter Kym Ashman_

_In a series of events which harken back to the mysteries of Jack the Ripper and Burke and Hare, an insider at Scotland Yard has revealed the existence of a new serial killer. While London is, most unfortunately, familiar with homicides, this latest spree has already resulted in four deaths with insidiously ominous twists._

_The bodies of Jackie Flint (26), Bruce Jugson (54), Tim Gibbon (63), and Sylvester Selwyn (18), were all found in their homes in the past few weeks. With no apparent cause of fatality even after toxicology reports and autopsies, the victims almost seem to have been 'frightened to death'. The only marks on their bodies were stick-figure men cut into their hands. All these figures were in different positions; Scotland Yard theorises that these 'dancing men' are cyphers of some sort._

_With different ages, socio-economic backgrounds, and living in separate corners of the city, there appears to be no connection between these murders. In light of their randomness, citizens are advised to be cautious of their surroundings and to report any suspicious activity to the proper authorities. Why Scotland Yard has not informed the public of this dangerous situation before is a mystery, and will remind our readers of their scapegoating of Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes which resulted in…_

Lestrade threw down the paper in disgust.

He rubbed his eyes and continued to ignore his colleagues' ravings. He supposed that the article could have been worst, but how had all of this leaked? The press hadn't had a hint of the serial murders before, for good reason. The only connection between the victims was to organised crime, so there was little cause to arise massive panic with a public announcement of serial killings. Still, the article itself wasn't terrible, and it certainly wasn't bad to keep London informed. The source of the leak irked him, but that wasn't what had hit him the hardest.

Instead, Lestrade could only concentrate on the sick feeling creeping up his chest. The article's words repeated round and round his head: '_their scapegoating of Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes... their scapegoating of Sherlock... scapegoat...'_. There wasn't a mention of the damned media's role in the scandal, but that was to be expected. Still, that had nothing whatsoever to do with the guilt which always accompanied a mention of that mistake.

Of his mistake.

Lestrade's hand tightened into a fist, staring in front of him. Donovan and Anderson continued ranting about Sherlock; had they learned nothing from jumping to the wrong conclusion so rapidly before? Not even of just 'jumping to the wrong conclusion'—of trying to ruin a man's reputation and drive him to suicide!

Forcing some control over his furious breathing, he took another look at the officers. They were both angry at Sherlock's continued antagonism (he could hardly blame them or the consulting detective for that) but their attitudes were decidedly different. Donovan stood on her moral high-ground, insistent that Sherlock lacked humanity. But her insults lacked her previous conviction. She hesitated before calling him a freak and hadn't mentioned since 'The Fall' that Sherlock could one day turn to crime. She certainly didn't like the man, but she'd stopped making false accusations.

Anderson was another story altogether. He was all bristling rage, pent-up annoyance, and full of insistences that Sherlock had fooled them all to the last. Lestrade couldn't remember what his latest conspiracy theory was, but likely revolved around hatching up _both_ Jim Moriarty and Richard Brook so that he could have a triumphant reveal and forever be beyond suspicion.

"I bet he's doing all this to get the press on his side." The man in question sneered. "Make everyone against the Yard and—"

"_Get. Out._" Lestrade spoke softly, directing his pointed glare towards Anderson. "Why don't you stop accusing Sherlock, and go find the leak in our division!"

"I still say it could be—"

"OUT!"

* * *

There were two hookers outside of 221 Baker Street.

Surprisingly, it was John who noticed them first. Maybe Sherlock was still so distracted with ranting about Scotland Yard's incompetency that this odd occurrence barely registered.

"–the _dunderheads_!" Sherlock scowled into the shadows as he hopped from the cab. "It's not enough for them to miss obvious clues, but then to miss _a leak_! How blind are they?"

"Nope, you're not overreacting at all." John spoke absently, still gazing at the women. They seemed horribly out of place here. Baker Street wasn't terribly upscale, but this seemed unusual.

"I doubt they're even upset." Sherlock scoffed, barely paying any attention to his flatmate. "Likely just think that it's par usual-is she wearing a gold bracelet? The hell?"

The consulting detective finally looked at the hookers in confusion. This served to merely heighten John's curiosity, especially when he noticed that they were indeed wearing truly expensive looking jewellery. Prostitutes dallying around this block would have been odd in itself, but the doctor had no doubt that his friend's piercing stare at this newest puzzle came from something else entirely. For, while it was obvious what the girls were lurking around for, their outfits were nothing short of bizarre.

Both could hardly be over twenty. The blonde, shorter one was staring up at number 221 with a gaped jaw. She whispered frantically to the brunette beside her. In all the former–in fishnet stockings, a poncho only just covering her upper thighs, shiny pink galoshes, and indeed a shiny gold bracelet–had the more ordinary clothing of the two. The brown haired girl's unitard shimmering with rhinestones, polka-dotted tie loosely hanging around her neck, 5-inch high sandals, and pearl necklace would have looked most at home in a risqué horror flick.

Though it was a chilly twilight, neither was shivering and both wore sunglasses. But most disturbing of all, the hookers with pricey jewellery were staring at their apartment in nothing short of amazed awe.

"He lives there, he lives there, he lives there-" the blonde girl's hyperventilation drifted over to the two watching men.

"Calm down Sandy!" The brunette chided even while she bit her fingernails. "I dunno. But we can see, just ring the doorbell."

'Sandy' appeared horrified at this suggestion. "I'm not ringing the doorbell! Merlin, I'd faint if I saw him."

"Little constitution." The girls spun around at Sherlock's haughty voice as the two men approached the house. "No qualms about respecting private property, and with dozens of ulterior motives." His eyes narrowed as he observed the shocked girls. "No sense of fashion or social protocol, but your easy natures mean that you never have a lonely night. Many one night stands and you, unitard girl, are having an affair. Still, you are both careless and never pay attention to details."

"I, what-" but the brunette was quickly cut off.

"'Sandy' here," Sherlock continued as the girls gaped, "is pregnant. Which is why neither of you are ordinary fans or curious reporters. Desperate to find a man for your unborn child, you decided to nab a 'celebrity' who is known for his eccentricities. Hence the," he sniffed, "clothes, or lack thereof."

The two girls were obviously a moment from bursting into tears. That more than anything made John decide to step in and stop his friend's rant. "That was your plan? Look, he's clearly not interested." Sandy began to sob in earnest. "Oh no, stop that! It's fine, there's no harm done, right Sherlock?"

"I'm so-so sorry. Nadia said we should come but, but," Sandy sniffed, clutching her belly. Nadia's jaw was still gaping too much to be able to speak, "who-who are you? His bo-bodyguard?"

John smiled as sympathetically as he could, giving Sherlock a 'subtle' kick for good measure. "His blogger." The girls looked even more confused. "I don't post my photo on it much."

"A what? Oh, never mind." Sandy shook her head, wiping away her tears even while more kept running. Nadia finally came to her senses enough to half-hug her friend and glare at Sherlock. Well, there was nothing new about the last one.

"This is stupid. So stupid." She gazed at the men with red-rimmed yet piercing eyes, all while fidgeting in her galoshes. "But I wasn't going to lie about the baby! Merlin, who do you take me for?"

"A hooker?" Sherlock spoke with his usual tact, glaring at John for his previous kick.

Nadia joined in the glaring. "Blame these muggle clothes. Sandy got some bad news so I thought I'd cheer her up by introducing her to her hero. There was a rumour going around that he lived here." She nodded towards the house.

John shared a look with Sherlock, for once both of them being on the same page with their confusion. "Sorry," the doctor began, "but when you say 'he' you mean..."

"Harry Potter." Sandy said simply, tears still flowing.

"And Ginny Potter!" Nadia chimed in, her anger giving way to excitement. "They never give autographs but if they hear our story I know that they'll-"

"You want the Potters' autographs?" John asked in complete mystification. "I thought you were talking about, erm, well..."

But the girls had stopped paying attention. Having gotten over Sherlock's rudeness they'd gone back to staring at 221 Baker Street in hushed awe.

John turned to Sherlock to exchange a bemused glance, but the latter was busy muttering to himself: "Did they just use 'Merlin' as a curse? 'Muggle' clothes? The _Potters_?"

* * *

**A/N:** Oh boy. Police leaks and Sherlock being confuddled about magic: what are our favourite anti-heroes to do?

I can't believe the incredible comments I've gotten! I am so appreciative of all the feedback, and am relieved you guys seem to think this silly wee story is funny. I originally started writing this simply because I had writer's block for my 'main' fic. Now, I'm five chapters in and have close to 100 reviews!? Merlin, all of you are amazing! Exclamation marks ahoy!

So to my lurkers, followers, favouriters, and reviewers: thankyouthankyouthankyou!


	7. The Five Orange Pips

**A/N:** Another update so soon? Goodness, it's the Apocalypse! Or maybe it's just a shorter chapter than usual since it's in a different style. If you are dreadfully confused about what's going on, check out Watson's blog posts created for 'Sherlock' BBC. I recommend you read everything on that website anyway, it's pure brilliance.

**General Disclaimer:** If I was Steven Moffat I'd have given Moriarty a blogger of his own. He wants a pet? Jim, honey, Watson would have _nothing_ on me...

* * *

**The Personal Blog of: Dr. John H. Watson**

**About me:** I am an experienced medical doctor recently returned from Afghanistan.

**Hit Counter:** 1895

**20th July**

**The Five Orange Pips**

Another week, another case of international mystery. But I'd be remiss if I didn't point out (and shout from the heavens, thank you very much) that while this situation is tragic, this is also the first time the great and almighty Sherlock Holmes has _not_ been able to solve a puzzle.

Yes, you read that right.

You might be curious what finally beat the consulting detective and led him to mope around the flat like a child who had their candy taken away. That's the most brilliant part: he was beaten by fruit seeds. Five orange pips, to be more precise.

I sincerely believe that Scotland Yard would have declared today a national holiday–just to irk Sherlock–if the case hadn't involved murder and possible kidnapping. Now, while it is early to write up this case (since it's still open and everyone is hoping for a happy ending), I felt that because of the lack of clues keeping London aware of recent happenings could possibly help our client. So I ask all of you, from family and friends, lurkers/Scotland Yard, to the media hyenas: if you see anything unusual which strikes you as similar to this case, contact the police immediately. It could save a man's life.

But I should start at the beginning of this entire mess. Thanks to the extensive media coverage, my blog readers should be familiar with 'The Fall' and my flatmate's subsequent Jesus-Figure reincarnation (Which I will never stop taking the mick out of him for). All of you will also likely be aware of the 'Dancing Men' serial killings of the past few weeks. Since Sherlock is consulting with Scotland Yard on the latter case July has been particularly busy. And that's not even mentioning our strange new neighbours, a zombie invasion/dominatrix, and mistaken groupies (more about these in a later post).

Still, since my friend can never resist a puzzle reaching seven or higher (long story there), we took on John Openshaw's case. John is an-odd character. I know odd characters. I am one and I live with an even odder one. So you know that when _I'm_ saying that...err, never mind. The point is that when he showed up outside Baker Street I was close to calling a cab to take him to hospital. He was out of his mind, throwing paranoid looks behind his shoulder, waving an envelope in the air, and declaring that he was going to be killed. The man was practically hyperventilating.

It took myself and one of our new neighbours to drag him inside without hurting himself, scaring our landlady in the process. Sherlock was no help at all and merely reclined in his chair. John (...the Second? John #2? Christ, I'll just call him Openshaw from now on) slowly calmed down and our neighbour left. Then, as nonchalantly as could be, Sherlock asked our guest what he knew about his father's and uncle's deaths.

Needless to say, this only made Openshaw more agitated. Once we (I) finally _again_ managed to calm him down, it turned out that Sherlock's 'guess' was correct. Big surprise there. The observation had something to do with a train ticket stub, aftershave and bitten fingernails. Don't ask me to explain my flatmate's mind.

Anyway, John Openshaw had been staying at his uncle's estate in Sussex while he recovered from a stint in Afghanistan. I was sympathetic upon hearing this, but Sherlock huffily moved the story along before I could even offer some calming tea. This uncle, Elias Openshaw, had made his fortune in Florida in the States but had been back in England since the 1990s. While this man was obviously generous in his offer for accommodation, it did come with a few strange stipulations. Our soon-to-be client wasn't allowed near any locked rooms, and his uncle waved away many of his questions concerning his occupation and aforementioned wealth.

It was last Spring when the trouble began. The uncle became agitated and panicked after he received a letter postmarked from Svalbard, Norway. John was able to see five orange pips and a slip of paper with only the letters 'D.E.', before his uncle grabbed the envelope from his hand. After he quickly peaked inside the entire thing was thrown in the fire. The older man began walking around with a rifle, boarded up his fireplace, tightened his security system, and took 'constant vigilance' to a new extreme.

One week later, Elias Openshaw was dead. Burned in the aforementioned fireplace. The boards in front of it had vanished without a trace.

Three days after that, John Openshaw's father Joseph (Elias' brother) received a letter from Massachusetts, USA. It was empty except for the five orange pips and the letters 'D.E.', alongside directions to send 'the papers to them' immediately. Joseph was dead a week later. They only ever found a head.

One day before our meeting, the youngest Openshaw had gotten a letter postmarked from Edinburgh, Scotland. He ran to catch a train into London, only bothering to look in the envelope when he was safely travelling through the countryside. When he'd gotten into the city he'd went straight to a detective inspector who, knowing Sherlock's expertise, sent the man to us on Baker Street.

When questioned by us, Openshaw said that he had no idea what was going on, who 'D.E.' was, or what papers he was supposed to deliver. He theorised that maybe it was the same papers his uncle had burned before he'd met his fate, but he wasn't sure and was too terrified to remember any details.

It was obvious from the start that Sherlock was hooked. He has an easy tell so take note: if he has his palms together beneath his head–à la Mr. Burns, with or without accompanying maniacal laughter–you have his full and undivided attention. I can't begin to tell you how rare this is.

But that's all beside the point. While Sherlock was able to make some of his patented observations (Though he certainly _did not_ have to tell the poor bloke his girlfriend was leaving him because of the PTSD), he didn't have enough details to get at the heart of the mystery. At least the five pips were straightforward enough. Remember the 'A Study in Pink' case? All the details are in a previous blog post, but the short of it is that these 'pips' used to be utilised by secret societies as threats. If these shady groups decided to blackmail someone, a bunch of these fruit seeds would appear outside their door. If the victim ignored or disregarded the warning, death or kidnapping would follow. I know, strange right? Surprisingly menacing though. Like something from an old spy novel.

In terms of the Openshaw Case, the main, pressing concern was that the timeframe between the letters and the subsequent deaths was growing shorter and shorter. With this narrowing deadline in mind and in lieu of true clues, Sherlock dragged us both to Scotland Yard and insisted that Openshaw enter protective custody. As it was late notice but only for a short period, a friend of ours volunteered to watch after him in his secure office.

This morning we found out that John had disappeared. Scotland Yard's in turmoil. The person watching after Openshaw had been gone for only a moment and the security camera footage showed the victim practically disappearing in mid-air. CCTVs outside this 'highly secure' building didn't show anything more, and Sherlock's now locked himself in his room.

Since the regular detectives are going mad, my flatmate's begun shooting at the walls, and I've taken a break from the clinic, I thought it'd be a good time to update my blog. But I just hope this case is solved soon and has a happy conclusion. I must admit though, I'm praying it's Scotland Yard that cracks it: the look on Sherlock's face would be priceless!

* * *

**28 Comments:**

* * *

It wouldn't be priceless, I'll solve the case before those morons, and I don't have 'a tell'. Don't bother me, I'm working.

**Sherlock Holmes**

**_20 July 10:30_**

* * *

Working? You're trying to bring the house down via gunshots! And of course you don't have a tell, sure. Because you're above such things.

**John Watson**

**_20 July 10:35_**

* * *

I am.

**Sherlock Holmes**

**_20 July 10:36_**

* * *

Are not.

**John Watson**

**_20 July 10:36_**

* * *

Am so.

**Sherlock Holmes**

**_20 July 10:37_**

* * *

Are not.

**John Watson**

**_20 July 10:37_**

* * *

John, can you get any more childish? But I am.

**Sherlock Holmes**

**_20 July 10:38_**

* * *

It's me, Mrs. Hudson again. Dearies, are you demolishing my flat? I'm putting it on your rent. But I do enjoy your writing John. Very mysterious but sad. Sherlock, you do have a tell. It's rather obvious.

**Marie Turner**

**_20 July 10:45_**

* * *

If you say so.

**Sherlock Holmes**

**_20 July 10:51_**

* * *

It's Ginny Potter this time. I was having tea with Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Hudson when your 'bog' updated! Your writing is very nice, we'll have to compare notes someday. But poor 'John the Second' ... I can ask my husband to lend a hand on the case if you'd like?

**Marie Turner**

**_20 July 10:55_**

* * *

NO.

**Sherlock Holmes**

**_20 July 10:55_**

* * *

Zombie invasion? Tell me more :)

**Kym Ashman**

**_20 July 11:30_**

* * *

NO.

**Sherlock Holmes**

**_20 July 11:32_**

* * *

I wasn't asking you :(

**Kym Ashman**

**_20 July 11:33_**

* * *

Sherlock, be nice to the neighbours. And TRY to be civil to reporters (At least in writing; the internet never forgets).

**John Watson**

**_20 July 11:35_**

* * *

Did you just use a semicolon on a blog comment?

**Harry Watson**

**_20 July 12:03_**

* * *

Shut it.

**John Watson**

**_20 July 12:23_**

* * *

HAHAHH!1!

**Harry Watson**

**_20 July 12:30_**

* * *

Very mature.

**John Watson**

**_20 July 12:35_**

* * *

Poor John! Erm, John the Second! John #2! John Openshaw! But I know Sherlock will find him. He's a genius!

**Jacob Sowersby**

**_20 July 02:02_**

* * *

Thank you.

**Sherlock Holmes**

**_20 July 02:10_**

* * *

Don't let it go to your head, it's inflated enough.

**John Watson**

**_20 July 02:15_**

* * *

This ridiculous blog is far more harmful on that count. Would it really be that difficult for you to state ONE SCIENTIFIC CONCLUSION?

**Sherlock Holmes**

**_20 July 02:17_**

* * *

Never mind that: would it be too much to ask for one little innuendo? For example, a suggestion of what one could do with these pips...

**TheWoman**

**_20 July 02:22_**

* * *

this case is complicated? really sherlock, you disappoint

**theimprobableone**

**_20 July 02:30_**

* * *

I must agree with the above post. Did that Fall do something to your head? I gave you my number, I can consult for the angels too. Or burn you all.

**Anonymous**

**_20 July 03:14_**

* * *

... Sherlock? Who is that? I WAS JOKING ABOUT ZOMBIES!

**John Watson**

**_20 July 03:30_**

* * *

Damnit.

**Sherlock Holmes**

**_20 July 03:32_**

* * *

_**View all entries**_

* * *

**A/N:** It is _way_ too entertaining to write blog posts/comments. Merlin, it's like mini-soap operas!

I always adored how the show 'Sherlock' would utilise technology and social media. The texts in and of themselves are simply brilliant, not the mention the transformation of Watson's tales into blog posts. So I _had_ to write it into the fic, I never really had a choice!


	8. Seen and Unforeseen

**A/N:** This chapter was so not my fault. Truly it wasn't. I was at a creative writing workshop/society a while back and we had to 'build a world' around prompts pulled from a hat. For my first prompt I did a Sherlock Holmes sketch. After sharing it my other Holmes-obsessed friends decided that the second thing everyone wrote should be Sherlock fanfiction. I jokingly said I'd mix things up by writing a HP/Sherlock crossover.

The next prompt I drew? 'Your literary world is identical to ours, except that trading dragons is illegal.'

Cue my mouth dropping open. I'd have been mental to not take advantage of such a perfect prompt. It was fate I tell you. FATE!

**General Disclaimer:** If I was J.K. Rowling or Steven Moffat, I wouldn't have broken EVERY SINGLE PERSON'S HEART with "The Casual Vacancy" and 'The Angels Take Manhattan'! *starts sobbing*

* * *

"HI HI!"

John blinked. After a few moments he decided that it must be the petri dish of fetid toenails on the hall table that was making him hallucinate. For that was the most likely cause of Sherlock staring at little Jamie Potter in the middle of their flat. Still, it never hurt to check before rushing off to hospital. "Hi to you too. Sherlock, why is one of the neighbours' children here?"

"We're babysitting." His flatmate didn't glance up. Nor did he shift his scrutinising gaze from the young boy, who was looking decidedly right back, determined to win this new game.

"Ah." Definitely an hallucination. He might as well play along; what was the harm. Plenty of time to dial 999 later. "You...volunteered to babysit?"

"Ginny needed time to write," Sherlock drawled slowly, still not taking his stare away from the now-fidgeting Jamie, "and taking care of three children wasn't productive to her goal. So she delegated. Please keep up, John."

"_She let you babysit?_" John said, before his train of thought caught on to the truly surprising implication. "Wait, _you agreed?_"

"I already said I volunteered."

"_Volunteered?!_"

"You are not a parrot. Act like it."

John made an effort to close his gaping mouth. Jamie by this time was looking amused at the entire situation with the silly adults. Or perhaps he was still just enthralled with the staring contest. "Why did you volunteer? Is this some sort of delayed breakdown from the failed case?"

Sherlock sent him a single glance of disdain as Jamie let out a cheer. "For an experiment." The consulting detective answered as though it was obvious. He then proceeded to ignore the doctor. "Jamie, what do you know about Merlin?"

"Wiza'd!" Jamie said extremely happily, having gotten Sherlock to look away before himself.

"Correct." Sherlock frowned. "Do you recall anything else about him?"

The little boy scrunched up his face in thought. His hand ruffled his hair in a way identical to his father. "Weally st'wong. Like daddy!"

"Right." Judging by the impatient set of Sherlock's jaw, this impromptu interrogation wasn't going the way he'd hoped. "Tell me, are your clothes 'muggle'?"

Jamie looked at the adult as though debating whether he'd lost his mind. "Yea'."

"Are mine muggle?"

"Yea'."

"Were Merlin's?"

"Nuh-uh." Was Jamie imitating Sherlock's 'how-moronic-can-you-possibly-be' expression? Christ, had the child decided Holmes was a suitable role model? John couldn't help but check the window for flying pigs. He was slightly relieved that this entire thing was a hallucination, even if there did turn out to be other side effects from breathing in apparently toxic, decaying fumes. In the meantime, for just a moment Sherlock was clearly shocked at Jamie's answer. Though everything was righted when he rapidly hid the slight signs.

"So, you've been questioning a child?" John wished he could be shocked by this.

"Easier than questioning the parents."

John gaped for a few moments before making a beeline out of the room. "I need tea. Yes, tea. That's absolutely what's needed. Tea and biscuits for Jamie, and normality will be set right."

"Black for me." Sherlock called out lazily, returning to scrutinising a bored Jamie.

"Get it yourself!" The doctor called back in frustration. There was the faint sound of a head hitting a wall. A slight smile slipped onto Sherlock's lips. This grin rapidly disappeared as a loud screech and _thud_ of something falling came from the other room. In the next second the doctor had raced back in, his furious yet commanding expression harking back to the Captain Watson of past.

"What did you do to the kitchen?" John managed to roar calmly. This was still enough to make Sherlock jerk up.

"Pardon?"

"Let me rephrase." The doctor steamed, on the last straw. "What did the poor kitchen ever do to you?"

Sherlock returned his attention to the now-gurgling Jamie, uninterested. "Did you or did you not find the biscuits?"

"I would have if you hadn't booby-trapped the bloody kitchen! Damn it, I can't even get a cuppa anymore."

"Language, John. It's hardly booby-trapped." Sherlock scoffed. "Not a bear trap to be seen."

"Be-trkaap!"

Sherlock had a trace of a smile. "Exactly."

"No, not exactly!" John protested, having found himself in the awkward position of siding against a toddler and world-class detective. "What have you done to the flat?!"

Said detective–thoroughly bored–had returned to quizzing Jamie about Merlin. He only deemed John with an answer of, "It's only a bit of paper."

"It's not just a–" but John's vehement yet surely well-constructed argument trailed off at the realisation that no one was paying him any attention. As far as he could tell the others were having two very passionate though separate conversations.

Sherlock was busy waxing poetic about the historical inconsistencies of Tarot cards and the like, while Jamie was gleefully comparing different types of dragons. At least, that's what John interpreted the jabbering ("Drag'n red 's goo. Goo' goo' goo'. Unca Charlee 'add it go bye bye. Bu' was s'ill goo'. No' like daddy ooo don' has it on his belly.") and roaring ("ARRGH! ME DRAG'N! Yea. GARGH!"). Not to mention the fact that the toddler had been flapping his arms and 'flying' around in circles before thumping to the floor with a happy giggle.

John would have found it amusing that neither Sherlock nor Jamie realised that the other had long since left the other's conversation, but he was far too busy being infuriated to care. For no matter what his flatmate said, the git _had so_ transformed their innocent kitchen into something out of a slasher film–and not even a vaguely decent one at that. It was not just a bit of paper: Sherlock had decorated every inch of the room with bloody dancing men cyphers. The 'bloody' even seemed to be literal.

John knew he shouldn't have complained about the pickled eyeballs last week. It was just like Sherlock to decide to do a social experiment to see how far the doctor could be pushed before the latter marched the former to St. Bart's roof to see if the miraculous zombie stunt could be recreated.

Not that John would ever actually do that, of course. But who ever said fantasies couldn't be entertaining?

"Sherlock. Sherlock!" John's shout finally transferred his flatmate's attention from his rant about historical inaccuracies concerning post-Roman Britain and Arthurian legend, to the doctor. "Kitchen. Explain. Now."

Jamie continued to roar, clapping his hands gleefully. Sherlock looked simultaneously bored and annoyed. "There's nothing to explain. I work best with visual stimuli."

"Visual stim–" John shook his head, refusing to be drawn further into the madness, "–no. Just, no. Enough skirting around the question and answer me."

Sherlock momentarily hesitated. The sheepish, uncertain, downright puzzled expression which swept across his face gave even Jamie pause–the latter was balanced mid-leap off the top of the sofa, 'wings' flung wide.

"I'm–stuck." John almost missed the detective's annoyed admittance, having rushed over to rescue Jamie. But once the giggling boy was in secure arms, Sherlock's words hit home.

"What?" John gaped, though a good part of him wanted to grab a camera to record this momentous occasion. First Sherlock wasn't able to solve cases, then he volunteered to babysit, and now he was admitting a weakness? "'The Fall' really did do something to your head, didn't it. Wait, I've been meaning to ask you–err, that commentator on my blog wasn't actually Moriarty, right?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock said contemptuously, his impatience and aloof manner instantly returning. "Of course it was Moriarty. But as far as the cyphers, yes, I'm stuck. Try to restrain yourself from rubbing it in."

John pushed down a sudden swirl of panic. He had to force himself to concentrate on the immediate incomprehensible issue at hand. No need to worry about supervillains until this serial killer/mob/evil organisation was behind bars or six feet under. "Haven't you enough samples of the code by now? You've proven there's enough to wallpaper a room. Which, by the way, you would do well to tidy up before Mrs. Hudson has your head. You're lucky you're still alive after the gun shots to the wall."

Sherlock scowled, unimpressed. "It doesn't matter how many samples I have if I'm missing the dratted key. Do you recall the book code? I'm missing the word I need to decipher this mess, and there's nothing to compare it to!" His voice's volume increased until, by the end, it had reached a gruff scream.

Jamie giggled at the funny man. Sherlock glared at the toddler for making light of his grievous misfortune. John thus glared at his flatmate for trying to scare a little kid. The young Potter's amused laughter only grew louder.

* * *

"Drug raid!" Lestrade's voice rang out far too cheerfully. But the glee halted as he stopped, stricken in the doorway, stunned at the sight. "It–is that a child?"

"The fre–_He_ has a kid?" Donovan peered in over his shoulder. Neither she nor Anderson bothered to hide their gapes.

"It's not his." John said while holding the squiggling boy.

"_You_ have a kid?" Anderson began sniggering. "Oh wait, he's _both_ of yours. Always knew it."

Sherlock snatched the child from an irritated John. "What are you doing here?"

"Didn't you hear?" Donovan started riffling through a desk. "Surprise drug bust. Aka: are you hiding any clues about the serial murders from us? Oh and yes, we did notice you didn't answer our questions about the kid."

"He isn't ours." John exclaimed. "But a drug raid? Why the hell is Anderson here?"

Anderson opened his mouth but Sherlock beat him to the punch. "I expect he volunteered. Again. Don't you have an actual job to do?"

"This is so much more fun." Anderson grinned from his spot on the couch, sniffing at something. "Now, the kid?"

Sherlock paused. "Jamie Potter." He turned to Lestrade. "Son of Harry Potter, our new neighbour. Does that mean anything to you?"

Lestrade crinkled his forehead, confused. "What? No. Should it?"

"Harry Potter." Sherlock repeated with growing urgency, unconcerned that police just trampled into his flat. "A detective who sometimes consults for Scotland Yard."

"The Yard is bigger than just us." Anderson sneered.

Donovan nodded along before lightening as Jamie giggled and slobbered onto Sherlock's scarf. "Awe, he's such a cutie. Why on earth is he with you two?"

"Babysitting." John answered shortly.

Donovan blinked in amazement. "...is that grounds for child abuse?"

"Act your age," Lestrade warned, "and play nice. But no, I don't know anyone named Potter."

"Green eyes, glasses, messy black hair," Sherlock rattled off, "has a scar in the shape of a lightening bolt on his forehead–"

"Wait, scar?" Donovan's eyes widened in realisation, her gaze flickering to Anderson nervously. "Was that 'Harry Potter'? Damn it."

"You know him!" Sherlock shouted out, vaulting over the couch to the sergeant as Jamie shrieked with glee. "Which cases have you worked with him?"

"He wasn't a consultant." Donovan frowned. "He was a perp. Sort of. Years ago he and his friends got in trouble for a spot of smuggling into England."

"_Years_ ago?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "How do you remember this?"

Donovan flushed slightly. Her commanding officer's eyebrow continued to raise before realisation crossed his expression as well. He began chuckling. "Oh, the 'dragon'. Good lord, that _was_ ages ago. Interesting case. It was before you got in contact with us, Sherlock, though it would have been right up your alley."

"What happened?" John asked, almost as curious as to Donovan's blush as to their mysterious neighbours.

Lestrade's smile twitched into a smirk. "This was back when Donovan was still a constable. We got a call that some chavs were being brought in; caught in airport security at Heathrow with some sort of ridiculous object..."

* * *

Sergeant Gregory Lestrade rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Let's take this from the top. So, what is it exactly?"

"An Hungarian Horntail." George Weasley said with a smile, leaning back in his seat.

"An egg, that is." Ron Weasley added as he looked around the interrogation room in fascination. "Blimey, is that a tekephone?"

"A _telephone_." Hermione Granger said in frustration. "A mobile. But all of you–shush and behave!"

Lestrade began to wish he had taken a long weekend. He looked to his side to share an understanding glance with Constable Sally Donovan, but she was too busy staring at the dark-haired teenager. The latter, in turn, was shifting uneasily under her predatory smile. Lestrade took a calming breath.

"Donovan, try to be professional. The kid's a _kid_." He whispered to her warningly. She just grinned and turned back to the nervous teenager.

"Harry Potter, aged nineteen." Donovan spoke, emphasising his age. "From Surrey, and single?"

"I have a girlfriend!" Harry blurted out, anxiously running a hand through his hair. George seemed a moment away from cracking up.

"Don't listen to him." The redhead leaned in, winking at Donovan. "Harry's as single as they come–OI! Ron, the hell did you hit me for?"

"He's dating our sister, you git." Ron seethed as George clutched his head.

"But it was funny!" George protested. "The please-woman was about to pounce him."

"Can we get back to why there's a giant black and red 'egg' sitting in the holding room?" Lestrade glared from the fidgeting kids to the blushing constable.

"Erm, sir?" The brunette girl piped in. "I know we're in trouble, but it's _really_ not a good idea to keep that egg here."

The Inspector huffed out in annoyance. "Right, because it's an Hawaiian Horn-"

"_Hungarian_ Horntail." The four kids corrected as one. Lestrade blinked.

"Mind telling me what that is?" He said drily. The teens exchanged a look.

"As unbelievable as it sounds," Harry spoke up hesitantly, looking anywhere but at Donovan, "we had a perfectly legal reason for carrying the egg around. We weren't smuggling it or anything."

Donovan finally joined Lestrade in his frustration. "Fine then, how about you tell us what you _weren't_ smuggling."

Harry fidgeted slightly, flashing a boyish smile. "I know it sounds crazy, but you've put a dragon egg in the middle of Scotland Yard. Oh, and it's about to hatch."

Donovan snorted. "A dragon, yeah. We aren't going to buy that."

Lestrade turned back to the kids and willed himself to say the words that would likely cue the end of his career at Scotland Yard. That is, if anyone took him seriously, and of course no one would. It was ridiculous. "All right, so you have a dragon egg. When you say 'dragon', you mean-"

"-a scaly lizard, flying monster that can breath fire." George nodded. "Yep. But I've heard they're awfully cute as babies. Though this was from my brother Charlie so I wouldn't take that to heart. Mental, that one."

Hermione turned to the redhead and practically breathed flames herself. "This coming from someone who made a _salamander_ eat a _firework_!"

"Oi!" George held his hands up placatingly. "It only singed some homework-"

"You frightened the first years!"

"They've seen worst." George tried to say with a reassuringly amused voice. This quailed under the girl's intimidating glare.

"He does have a point." Ron instantly leaned away as Hermione spun towards him. "Not about the salamanders! But come on, we faced Fluffy and a cannibalistic plant our first year. The munchkins can take it-"

Hermione calmed down marginally and almost looked swayed, but then the younger redhead unwisely continued.

"-plus, you were the one who decided taking the egg ourselves was a brill ide–umph!" The officers weren't quick enough to stop the angry brunette from pouncing the redhead.

* * *

John Watson blinked. "So wait, you interrogated Harry Potter. While hitting on him. Huh. Ginny won't be pleased."

"_Ginny_?" Donovan asked, her eyes narrowing a touch.

"Ginny Potter. They are married and have three kids. Get over your ridiculous crush." Sherlock waved this insignificant information away, missing the stormy gaze sent his way. "Were they prosecuted?"

Lestrade shrugged, scratching the back of his neck. "Not sure. I think their case was transferred to special ops. What was it, the Aurors?"

"The Aurors." Sherlock seemed positively delighted. "This was the last you heard of the 'dragon egg'?"

"I'm pretty sure." Lestrade didn't understand the consulting detective's excitement. "It did happen years ago; the only reason I remember it at all is because of the weirdness of the case. Not to mention that it _was_ the Aurors."

"What's so special about this team?" John questioned.

"No one knows anything about them." Donovan took up the explanation like one secretly thrilled to be passing on a bit of gossip. "Mysterious, the lot of them. You know that TV series 'Torchwood'? They're exactly the same."

John began laughing. "What, they're chasing aliens around?"

"Not exactly." Anderson corrected, still not entirely happy after hearing about Donovan's long-ago crush. "This group comes onto weird crime scenes and, next thing we know, the cases've disappeared from the Yard's mainframe databases."

"Very hush-hush." Donovan got into the story once more, her voice now a whisper. "Only the upper officials seem to have any clue about it. But the lot of them are very weird. I ran into them once myself in the city's centre. Believe it or not, a man had been killed inside of a telephone booth. We had gotten the crowd of onlookers under control and had just begun worrying about forensics when _they_ popped out of nowhere. Actually, they did look quite like Captain Jack Harkness now that I think about it–long cloaks, robes and that sort."

Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently. "Jack Harkness?"

"_Captain_ Jack Harkness. Main character on 'Torchwood'." Donovan let out a wistful sigh. "A bisexual immortal who has an utterly incredible smile and–"

Anderson coughed. "So, are we in agreement that the Aurors and Torchwood are the same and that the Potters are aliens? Yes? Good. Moving on: Holmes, which planet are _you_ from, and how did you escape the authorities?"

"Hilarious." Sherlock scowled. "No Anderson, we can rule out aliens. Something strange is going on but it has no markings of the extraterrestrial."

"_Markings of the extraterr_–Freak, I was joking." Anderson looked at him askance. "It was a _joke_. Do they have those on your planet?"

"Oh how I abhor your 'sparkling wit'." Sherlock drawled, crossing his arms. "Once again, if you cannot say anything of substance then do _shut up_!"

Anderson huffed. "Rude bastard." He muttered to himself before turning to Donovan. "I need a drink. You want anything?"

"Blatant thievery!" Sherlock shouted out while Anderson waltzed into the kitchen, but this was all-but forgotten in the commotion that followed. A moment too late John realised that, yes, no one should have been allowed into the kitchen. For all that his flatmate annoyed him, he didn't want to see the consulting detective carted away to an asylum.

"Anderson, wait–" John called frantically. Yet as the wide-eyed man ran back into the sitting room it was obvious that he was far too late.

"You're mad." Anderson intoned expressionlessly, gazing at an unperturbed Sherlock in shock. "You were before, but now? You've gone over the deep end! What the bloody hell is the matter with you?"

Sherlock humphed. "Oh yes, because _I'm_ the person who falsely accuses people, sets up fake drug busts, and then tries to rob citizens. Yes, indeed."

"Anderson," Lestrade rubbed his forehead at the pounding accusations, "you better have a damned good reason for saying that."

Anderson just snorted and quirked a thumb towards the unassuming kitchen. "Go and see for yourself."

Lestrade turned to Sherlock and, after a nod of permission, headed inside with a curious Donovan trailing close after. John sent a worried look at his flatmate as the door closed, but the consulting detective was in his own little world. With his eyes closed, fingers clenched up in a 'prayer' stance, and mouth mumbling random phrases it was clear that he was working on the latest 'clues' to the ensuing mysteries.

John took another anxious look at the oddly silent doorway. "It will be okay, you know."

"Hmm mmm." Sherlock's eyes remained closed.

"I won't let them do anything this time."

"Mmm."

John scowled at the unseen detectives. "They're only ignorant jerks. Ignore whatever they say. You're the genius who solves all their cases: why should they care how you solve it? Obnoxious gits."

Sherlock peeped out at his only true friend as a whisper of a smile crossed his lips. "Indeed."

"It doesn't matter." John nodded resolutely, choosing to ignore that he had been the first to raise concerns about the kitchen's new wallpaper. "Stupid blighters. I'll make sure they don't try anything again. I'll–nothing will happen. Don't worry. I'll make sure."

"Thank you." Sherlock fully reopened his eyes while dropping his hands. He sent his flatmate a considering gaze. "It means–that means more than you know. Still John, you're being irrational. Nothing will happen. Don't be foolish and exaggerate."

John's frown quirked into a smile. "Because neither of us are prone to melodrama."

"Of course not." Sherlock looked askance at the indication. "Facts, John. Facts! Emotions have no place in it."

"No, course not." John replied just as the door creaked back open. "They don't look happy."

"We can use the toddler as a shield?" Sherlock said absently, ruffling a giggly Jamie's hair.

"Don't be ridiculous, he's far too small." John forced on a fake bright smile for the stormy police. "Ah, so, did you find the tea?"

Lestrade ignored John in lieu of his guilty flatmate. "Bored, are you?"

"Horrendously." Sherlock intoned as Jamie continued to drool over his scarf.

"So you decided to redecorate." A grin cracked through Lestrade's stern demeanour. "Christ, how did you manage to survive Mrs. Hudson's wrath?"

John felt himself relaxing, even while Anderson and Donovan were both peering at the samples of cypher in their hands in disbelief. "She doesn't know yet. He might use Jamie here as a shield when that happens."

"Good plan; also explains the babysitting." Lestrade nodded, smiling at the lad. "Bit small though."

"He'll be fine." Sherlock tugged his much-abused scarf out of the protesting toddler's mouth. "According to Mrs. Hudson he is 'the most adorable little thing ever'."

"You'll be fine then." Lestrade collapsed into a seat. "So–please tell me that with all of that," he made a vague sweeping gesture towards the kitchen, "you've made some progress on the code. Because apparently the 'highly skilled decoders' at the Yard don't think that stick figure cyphers are their division. Prats."

Sherlock hummed before sweeping around to stare at the wall, arms resolutely crossed. "It's–coming along." Though he would deny it for all time, John giggled.

"So you're clueless." Anderson snorted, exchanging a bemused look with Donovan.

"Like you could do better." Sherlock retorted without pause.

"Some of it is bloody well obvious." He pointed at a code on the crumpled sheet he held with a smirk. "Or do you not see how this bit spells out 'Southbank'?"

Within a moment the world's only consulting detective had vaulted across the room and snatched the paper from Anderson's hand. He scrutinised it closely; his raising eyebrows the only sign of his amazement.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Anderson grinned. "Goes to show you shouldn't be so full of yourself, Freak. Some genius you are."

But instead of a witty comeback Sherlock merely continued staring at the cyphers, not deeming the pompous man or the confused others with even a glance. In the puzzled atmosphere cluttering the flat, only one person noticed a bored Jamie turn the skull on the mantlepiece into a toy Hungarian Horntail.

* * *

**A/N:** Lestrade and Donovan weren't obliviated about the dragon egg because the aurors didn't think it was necessary, since they and no one else would believe. It would be the same reason why, say, aliens wouldn't bother memory wiping someone of their abduction, because who would because this 'crazy person' claiming they went on a joyride in a UFO?

Obliviations would only be used if magic needed to be covered up. Whether that means banishing the memory of Nessie in the Thames or of getting rid of Sherlock's suspicions, it doesn't matter. The dragon egg was taken away from Scotland Yard, the 'perps' were arrested by 'special ops', and that was the end of the story.

Also, Jamie Potter is totally awesome. Just saying.


	9. The Man With Two Faces

**A/N:** Sorry for the insanely long wait! I've been buried with essays, postgrad applications, and meeting Harry and the Potters and J.K. Rowling.

No, I'm not joking. Yes, feel free to _crucio_ me.

I snagged tickets to the Edinburgh Snow Ball and the Rowling book signing at the Lennoxlove Book Festival. I'm still feeling high like a Quidditch player dosed with felix felicis!

I thanked J.K. Rowling for my childhood and she told me that, no, 'hocus pocus' was just a joke and is not what creates horcruxes (like how 'abracadabra' became 'avada kedavra'). My hero personally shot down my theory! ohmymerlinohmymerlinohmymerl in *hugs the signed copies of "The Casual Vacancy" to her chest in a death grip, neverevereverever letting them go*

Oh, and my boyfriend J and I dressed up as Voldy and Bella for the Snow Ball. J jump-hugged Harry and the Potters screaming, "Let's finish this the way it started: TOGETHER!" I have a video of Rowling looking at me in disbelief, Joe DeGeorge's expression of 'omgwtf' shock, and me with Paul DeGeorge. My life is now complete.

As for the actual story, if anyone's confused about the many different pieces of the police/auror case, don't worry. It will all make sense in time. Seriously, I promise! I totally know what I'm doing. Yups. Yes siree bob. There will also be a summary of what's happened so far in the coming chapters when the complete Golden Trio make an appearance.

Another enormous thank you to my beta spellmugwump97!

**General Disclaimer:** Not dead, an inferi or a sparkly vampire, even with the crazy long wait between chapters. Thus, I'm safely not Conan Doyle. Since there aren't _quite_ years between my updates, I'm also not Rowling. I could still be Steven Moffat, so that's something.

* * *

_"I want to solve problems ... our problem. The Final Problem. It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock ... the Fall. But don't worry: falling's just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination." James Moriarty to Sherlock Holmes in the 'Reichenbach Fall'._

* * *

A rap from the front hall drew the confused conversation to a halt. A few footsteps later and a dark-haired man and a turquise-haired boy hesitantly entered the main room.

"Hello. The door was open so I–" he paused at seeing the crowd of people, "–didn't realise you had company. Hi, I'm Harry, this is my godson Teddy. I'm here to pick up my son." He gestured towards the hyper boy, though the clarification wasn't needed: his child was already racing to him excitedly.

"DADDYYY! TEDDYYY!" Jamie pounced onto the former's leg. "Me drag'n! ROAAARR! Yea'. GRRR!"

"Course you are." Harry grinned and ruffled his hair before straightening up for the adults. "Thanks for looking after him on short notice. You wouldn't believe the amount of work we got swamped with, and Gin's feeling under the weather. I hope there wasn't any trouble?"

"He was fine." John couldn't help but smile as Jamie continued to jabber. "Very well-behaved."

"So, nothing at all happened?" Harry double-checked, though his voice remained stubbornly calm. "No actual–" he saw Lestrade and, recognising his face, let his sentence drifted off, "–I'm sorry, have we met before? You look familiar."

Lestrade smirked before extending his hand. "DI Greg Lestrade. Though we first met when I was a sergeant and you were smuggling dragon eggs."

Teddy burst into laughter. His godfather was just confused.

"What? Wait ... what?" As Harry pulled his hand back from the shake he caught sight of the blushing Donovan. His breath halted. "Oh shit."

"Sh't!" Jamie proclaimed happily, having found his inner monkey and was doing a scrambled climb up his dad's chest. Teddy continued his hiccouphing chuckles, silently urging his godbrother on by making funny faces.

"No, don't say that. At least in front of your mum." Harry told Jamie vaguely, his attention now fully on the detectives. "Er, this is a nice surprise?"

"You grew up." Donovan smirked through her blush. Anderson sneered. Harry paled. "We were never properly introduced. Sally Donovan. Sally. Good to see you aren't still a criminal."

Teddy's laugh shifted to stunned disbelief in record time. "Wait, you _actually_ smuggled dra–"

"Course not." His godfather rapidly cut in. "Nope, just one big misunderstanding. I'm actually on the other side of law and order." This last was directed towards the detectives.

"The Aurors?" Donovan scanned him; it was clear to a sighing Lestrade, annoyed Anderson, and befuddled John that she was comparing the handsome man to Captain Jack Harkness. Harry just looked at her incredulously.

"Did Holmes or John mention–" he turned but saw that the oddly silent Sherlock was intensely examining a piece of paper, paying no attention to the wider room.

"We did." John said with a note of apology. "The detectives popped by – randomly – and were curious who Jamie was."

"Then hearing your name," Anderson's tone was flushed with challenge and macabre amusement, "Sally remembered you. Wasn't pleased to hear you were married with kids."

Donovan turned a bright crimson. Teddy eyed her curiously, trying to determine exactly what colour this could be. Harry, though embarrassed, noticed his godson's expression and shot him a warning glance. The boy stuck out his tongue and took to surveying the room in boredom, until noticing something in the corner of his vision.

He caught the other wizard's eye and nodded slightly towards the side of the room. Harry followed his line of sight. His blush became pale while he made a quick beeline to the mantlepiece. Well, as quick as one could while their child-turned-monkey clung onto their neck.

"Lovely painting." His gaze was in fact focussed on the plushie Hungarian Horntail he was blocking from the room's view. "Where did you get it?"

"Thanks." John said. "Not sure actually, it's Mrs. Hudson's."

"It's nice." Harry said, quickly flicking his wand. "With the, colours and whatnot." He stepped away from the mantlepiece and painting (as well as the now crisp white skull, two occupants of the room noticed). "Anyway, must be off. Nice to see you; thank you so much for babysitting."

"Actually," Lestrade followed the trio to the door, "I was wondering if I could have a word about the Aurors."

"Oh!" Donovan said giddily, racing after them with a stormy Anderson at her heels. "Me too!"

The door slammed.

John breathed a sigh of relief. His flatmate didn't take his eyes off of the sheet of paper. Shouts of dragon gabbering and quasi-police interrogation echoed down the hall, muffled by the distance and wood. The doctor looked at the consulting detective with a slight tinge of anxiety. "Sherlock?"

"..."

"They're gone." John resisted the urge to poke him, just to see if that would get a reaction. Knowing Sherlock, he'd either ignore it or overdramatically jump up with a curse.

"..."

Apparently he would just ignore the poke. "Aren't you curious about the Potters? The Aurors?" John's sense of inevitable doom skyrocketed. Forget poking. Maybe a bullhorn or shouts about a new serial killer. Or talk incessantly about Mycroft: that was sure to pull Sherlock into an angry diatribe.

"..."

"... could you enlighten me as to what's going on? Sometime this year. Or the next, if that would suit you better." Realising this wasn't going to work John sighed, picked a book off the shelf, and settled down on the sofa to wait for Sherlock to stop being so utterly Sherlock. Or for Mycroft to pick up on the tension from the CCTVs around the room (John _knew_ they were there, no matter how many times that prat and his she-who-had-many-names assistant insisted that they didn't exist) and come storming in. With or without another proposal to Buckingham Palace. Thank god Sherlock had his trousers on this time.

With that ruminating thought, John forced his attention onto the book, trying to fool both himself and his unresponsive flatmate that he was not curious at all. Nope, not curious whatsoever.

An indiscernible amount of time later, the consulting detective at last looked up at the room with wide eyes, crumbled the paper, threw it to the ground, and began pacing the room. "Impossible." Sherlock gnashed his teeth together, pulling futelessly at his hair as he sat stooped before the fireplace. "He's a raving idiot and–John, it's wrong! Bloody well WRONG!"

The doctor looked up from his book at the mention of his name. "So you're finally back. Sorry, did you start a conversation with me _without_ me again? Yes and someone else is the idiot. Exactly."

"Do shut up." Sherlock snarled, his voice muffled by his hands. "Something's wrong with Anderson."

"What?" John finally paid attention at this impossible occurrence of Sherlock showing concern over the fumbling forensics scientist. He laid his book to the side. It didn't matter, he couldn't even recall what he'd been reading about; nothing important, at any rate.

"He's not actually a blithering idiot."

"Ah." John blinked. Back to normal: a backhanded insult meant this wasn't concern for Anderson. "Wouldn't you be relieved by that? You're always complaining about his incompetence."

"The problem," Sherlock's grip on his hair grew tighter, "is that he's _never_ been a moron."

The doctor shook his head, staring at his friend in concern. "Are you feeling alright? I think your conscience is showing. You should get that looked at."

"Do try to keep up." The detective looked up in annoyance and all thoughts of a growing conscience were banished from John's mind. "Anderson's never been an idiot–he's only pretended to be one. He's just let his cover slip!"

"Ah." John looked at the fireplace, tapped his feet, scratched his head, and glanced back to Sherlock. "Nope, that doesn't make any sense. What?"

"Anderson!" Sherlock squawked, pouncing off of the couch. "He's _wrong_. Intrinsically, fundamentally WRONG! But this is good, perfect, because the string of spiderwebs reaches even farther than I had thought. Hah! We were all blind; how did I not see this before?"

"Uh huh." John leaned away from Sherlock's frantic pacing. "Apparently I'm still 'blind'. So Anderson's been lying about something?"

Sherlock spun around, his expression set between grim anticipation and giddy excitement. "About _everything_. The question is, why? A spy, a police cover, an assassin–"

"You're seeing killers everywhere." John broke in drily. "The other day you were convinced that little, ah, Teddy's changing hair colour was a sign he was poisoning the tea."

Sherlock glared. "Those 'children' are a nuisance and the parents are even worse. But we are not discussing the case which you will almost inevitably entitle 'The Perplexing Potters'."

"So now the neighbours are a case?" John stiffly groaned. "Stop taking jabs at my blog, we both know it's your livelihood."

"That isn't the point." A book went flying against the much abused, bullet-hole ridden wall. "Anderson is the greater threat, the greater puzzle! Can't you see?"

"I would if you could bloody well explain." John said with relative calm to the incensed detective.

"He's hiding something." Sherlock hissed. "His entire personality, possibly even his actual identity."

"Right." John blinked. "So, though you've known this man for years, you're convinced he's in fact someone else because..."

"...because he's not smart enough to solve any part of the dancing men cypher." Sherlock supplied. "Yet he did."

A pause. "Uh huh."

"There's more evidence as well."

John began surreptitiously glancing around the room.

"There aren't any drugs here." Sherlock spoke brusquely. "I'm not high or on nicotine patches."

"Course you aren't." The doctor continued peering around in his search for hiding spaces.

"He knows German." Sherlock gritted out, decisively ignoring his flatmate's complete lack of trust. "Or at least that 'rache' means revenge. It was his reflex definition during the, ahem, 'A Study in Pink'. Remind me to hack your blog."

"Feel free to do that, it won't matter." John stooped to look under the couch. "Mycroft has back-ups of the webpages. He likes annoying you. As for Anderson, the man does bloody well work at Scotland Yard. Being bilingual and showing signs of intelligence is to be expected."

_Crack!_

The loud crash neatly interrupted John and it was a few moments before his suddenly sheepish voice rang out from under the couch. "Sorry about that, I'll clean this up. What was the liquid stored down here?"

"It's an experiment that you were obviously meant not to touch!" Sherlock glared, though it went unseen and unnoticed. "But never mind that. No one has met Anderson's wife. He's cheating on her with Donovan but she's never made an appearance; none of the detectives have ever mentioned seeing her at an office party of social visit. I wouldn't be surprised to find her missing from every database."

"Good god," John finally surfaced from under the couch, gasping for air, "are you out of your mind? The fumes alone are digging a hole into the floor! Mrs. Hudson will murder you without pity or remorse."

"She loves me. You're the one who broke it." The detective barely paid attention to his ill-placed experiment, John's pale face, his landlady's inevitable ire, or the hideous fumes slowly leaking through the room. "Let's summarise. Anderson is intelligent, has no wife, knows passing German, and has hated me from the beginning."

"Everyone sane hates you." John said in a muffled voice, having covered his mouth and nose with his sweater. He draped the blanket back down to stop any further gas from escaping before rushing to open the window. "You're grasping at straws. Mark my words, these fumes have done something to your head."

Sherlock scoffed. "The 'fumes' are harmless, merely a putrid type of bacteria. You're a doctor, certainly you can tell that you have no distressful symptoms."

"I can barely think _over this stench!_"

"There's no need to scream."

"You want symptoms? How about the fact that you're talking nonsense!"

"It's not nonsense. Besides, I had this theory _before_ you ruined my experiment." Sherlock gave a barely discernible sigh. "Anderson is Sebastian Moran."

John paused, terrifying gas momentarily forgotten. "What? Sorry, who?"

"A hit-man." Seeing that John was still lost Sherlock continued. "Moriarty's right hand man. Certainly you remember the sniper targeting the explosive on your chest?"

"Yes, I 'remember'." John fought the (relatively common) impulse to punch his best friend. "But I was too preoccupied to notice the man's _hidden_ face while I was strapped _with an explosive_!"

"Oh." Sherlock's expression twisted into remorse. "I–that's right. I apologise. I, should not have mentioned that."

"No, you shouldn't have." The doctor replied huffily. A silence settled down between them as much of the remaining fumes drifted out the window. A heavy bang from downstairs meant that either Mrs. Hudson was once again trying feng shui, or that the Potters had exploded other tea kettle. The erupting tea tended to happen a lot around them. The consulting detective always gained an odd expression when Harry or Ginny gave yet another explanation for the frequent popping noises that seemed to follow them.

"I really am sorry." Sherlock began again, at last breaking the pregnant pause. In contrast to his usual nature he was deftly hesitant. "If you wish to talk about it–"

"I don't."

"But if you need to–"

"I won't."

The still, blank air returned. But this time it was a more companionable silence and there were no more crashes from the other flats. John's annoyance even softened until, with a sigh, he sat back down on the couch beside Sherlock. "You shouldn't have put the experiment under the sofa."

"Jamie did it." Sherlock said instantly.

"I'm sure." John didn't find it at all strange that his friend was scapegoating a child. "So Anderson's actually this 'Moran' character? Seems like a leap of logic."

"It's elementary." A bit of Sherlock's scorn returned. "Moriarty's organisation is all but disestablished. Only a few men are left underground. Anderson is clearly not who he says he is, and his long-term cover at Scotland Yard has all the markings of one of _His_ plots. We just need to determine what this particular plot is."

"Right." John rubbed his head, forlornly realising he wouldn't be able to talk his flatmate down from this latest mental idea. "You're mad, but I suppose there's no harm in theorising. What do you think this supposed plot it?"

"To reestablish Moriarty's hold on power." Sherlock said absently, his thoughts, observations, and theories elsewhere as his mind spiralled forward at a rate John couldn't compete with. "While his boss has gone underground after faking his death, 'Anderson' continues in his cover from the perfect position to make a strike."

"Wait, that's another thing." The doctor piped in with something he'd been wondering about for some time. "I know that you were able to fake your death by getting Molly onboard. But how did Moriarty trick the pathologists?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Paid them off, most likely. I'd always thought he had an inside man in the mortuary but perhaps this was 'Anderson's' doing as well. It hardly matters. If I could figure out a way to survive a fall from St. Bart's roof without knowing the entire plan, there is no doubt that Moriarty had multiple escape routes ready and waiting."

John couldn't argue against this logic. Or at least, the part about Moriarty. Sherlock's insistence that Anderson was evil still didn't sit right. The doctor couldn't stand the git, but he also couldn't picture the somewhat bumbling man as an expert marksman.

"Except that Anderson being an expert at espionage would account for that." Sherlock broke into John's thoughts.

"You have a point." His flatmate admitted before freezing. "Did you–did I just speak aloud?"

Sherlock just gave him a condescending look.

"No, I didn't!" The doctor began to panic. "But you still answered my question and, good lord! Sherlock, you can read minds. Wait, _did you just read my mind?_ That's a complete invasion of privacy! Even by your standards–"

"I didn't read your mind." The world's only consulting detective actually rolled his eyes. "Your thoughts were crystal clear. It wasn't difficult to keep up."

John hesitated. "I–definitely should not ask, but how? What?"

Sherlock gave a self-sacrificing sigh. "Your incredulous gaze was obvious to note. But you fingered the place on your chest where the explosives had been with unease. Thus, I could imply that you at least took the threat posed by Moriarty seriously. Yet in the next moment your wary expression turned into an amused snort, thereby indicating that you found some part of my explanation ridiculous. You then unconsciously, though thoughtfully, placed your hand where a gun holster would be, before once again shaking your head with a smirk. You therefore clearly feel my accusations on Anderson are groundless–particularly because you cannot imagine him as having a decent shot. This was when I decided to 'interrupt' to remind you that _if_ Anderson is indeed not who he appears to be, that would imply that his acting skills are incredible."

"That was incredible." John said with awe, though wholly unsurprised his friend could continue to amaze him with different signs of brilliance.

Sherlock's frosty demeanour–appearing whenever he made a deduction–softened. "Thank you. But this is all beside the point!"

* * *

**A/N:** *rewatches the video of Rowling signing her books over and over and over and over and over and*

Oh right, you lot are still here *shoves away the popcorn*. So! In the original Sherlock Holmes books by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Sebastian Moran was James Moriarty's right-hand man. Thus, he isn't an OC (I also totally stole the 'mind reading' idea from Conan Doyle as well). But beware! Not everything is as it seems and Sherlock might not be entirely correct. Oh, the Horror. _The Horror!_

For a while I was worried about this story. I knew its characters, setting and plot, but I had no set villain or critical twist. It was like a gaping, festering wound in the middle of the giant pink elephant in the room. But it's all cool because my friend L saved the day! We were both in Dublin on a choir tour when we–being good fangirls–spent the time chatting about BBC Sherlock theories. After wistfully sighing over the cuteness of Johnlock, we theorised on how the criminal and detective consultants survived The Fall. While we agreed that they both possessed horcruxes we knew that wasn't enough. Then L mentioned a certain crazy theory lurking in the corners of the internet, and I may or may not have begun hyperventilating in the middle of an Irish cafe.

As much as I adore Moriarty, this theory rocks my socks. Especially after L and I put our own spin on it! As fair warning: I was half-zombified from lack of sleep and my friend was mid-way through James Joyce's "Ulysses" when we came up with this. L and A (L's flatmate and the queen of internet knowledge who knows all the newest, delicious fan speculation) are totally awesome and deserve all the red vines in the world.


	10. Hermione's Helping Hand

**A/N:** A big thank you to my wonderful beta spellmugwump97! If you haven't seen her stories yet, what in Merlin's name are you still doing here? I particularly recommend her 'Back From The Grave'. After reading that, I'd also go over and see Bludger1's work. What? Of course I'm not bias because we're a couple! Pshaw, I just adore stories that mix Harry Potter with zombie Apocalypses :D

Oh, and a quick warning for this chapter: the risqué Irene Adler makes another appearance. No big issues, but a few things are 'implied'.

**General Disclaimer:** J.K. Rowling wouldn't have waited ten chapters to introduce Hermione: she only waited six! Far better. I don't know what I was thinking not having the bestest character in here for ages…

* * *

"There are some things you can't share without ending up liking each other, and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them". From _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_.

* * *

"_Muffliato!_" Harry cried out before his wand was snatched from his hand. Luckily for their reputations, no one noticed their secluded booth in The Three Broomsticks. Or, if anyone did, they were wise enough to stay out of the way of a furious Hermione Weasley–who was currently clutching the holly wand as though she yearned to snap it in half. Harry couldn't help but wince and scramble as far away as the seat would allow him.

"Nine years after Hogwarts–" she spoke deliberately, her short curls bouncing with every punctured syllable. For no one ever said that the 'Golden Trio''s lunches together were stress-free. Quite the opposite, in fact. At least there wasn't a literal dragon in attendance to this one: just a metaphysical one.

"Er, Hermione–"

"–_nine years after Hogwarts_," the brunette growled through gritted teeth, her husband grinning in vengeance beside her. Harry eyed them both in trepidation, "and you're still driving me to nervous breakdowns! Is this a game for you? Oh, it's _funny_ to watch me worry and fret over _your blasted, reckless stupidity!_"

"Nope, definitely not funny." The man-who-conquered shifted guiltily under Hermione's glare. "Not at all and, err, does it help that I've never done it on purpose?"

"NO!" Hermione's voice rose, lips thinning like her old mentor. "It doesn't help! Why am I only finding out about this now?!"

"Classified–"

"Idiots." She sighed, tightly rubbing her eyes and ignoring her husband's 'Oi!' of protest. "I doubt either of you know the meaning of 'classified'."

Harry and Ron opened their mouths to disagree but, catching sight of her expression, thought better of it and shut up.

"If you weren't caught, then fine. No harm done." She reluctantly admitted, yet her growl soon started up once more. "But since you were an idiot and _did_ get caught, you should have immediately flooed your blasted attorney! Merlin, don't you _think_?"

"But you're not my–"

"Harry?" Ron said, edging away from his furious wife and, more particularly, her sparking wand. "Nod, agree, and beg forgiveness. It'll end faster that way."

"_Both_ of you, shut it!" Hermione returned her full killing glare to a wilting Wizarding Saviour. "I've studied law intensely, am Senior Undersecretary to the Department Head of Magical Law Enforcement, and have kept you two from dying or being chucked in Azkaban for sixteen years! _Yes, I'm your bloody attorney!_"

"Mate, run! Her hormones have gone haywire–"

"Ron, shut up!" She shouted, dropping the wand but never looking away from Harry. Said man-who-conquered was currently trying to silently and wandlessly disillusion himself, not feeling brave enough to try and get the holly wood and phoenix feather back in hand. "_Scotland Yard?_ What were you thinking! Oh, you weren't, were you. Because you never do! Don't you dare give me that rubbish about instincts and whatnot. I saw the report after Ron mentioned it: how obvious were you! You're just lucky I'm not telling Molly and Ginny about this debacle!"

Since he didn't want to be cursed to little bits and pieces (or have his mother-in-law let out her inner sabre toothed tiger in the near future), Harry didn't mention the hilarity that Hermione was more upset about his apparent stupidity and for keeping her out of the loop, then about him breaking into Scotland Yard. "I'll try harder next time?"

"And you'll contact me!" She blistered, though calming marginally and sitting back down. "Honestly, there were so many other options than obliviating countless muggles."

Ron couldn't keep back a snort. Hermione slowly turned to him and, once he noticed, began fidgeting uneasily. "What?" He asked in a manly squeak.

"What do you know that I don't?" Hermione narrowed her eyes. Harry breathed out a sigh of relief for finding himself out of the line of fire.

"I, uh." Ron exchanged a scared look with Harry for, no matter how good the two of them had gotten at lying as aurors, Hermione and Ginny were always able to see through their poker faces. "It's just something about Harry's new flatmates. Not a big deal."

"Holmes' brother?" Hermione paused before groaning in realisation. "Oh Harry, you haven't. Do I want to know how many times you've erased the poor man's memory?"

"Not his whole memory." Harry side-stepped the question. "You don't understand. Sherlock Holmes is far too smart for his own good. He even consults with the Yard and has been suspicious of us from the start!"

"As though you weren't suspicious of _him_ since the start." Hermione closed her eyes, mouthed a slow count upwards to ten. This technique failed to calm her and she reluctantly reopened her eyes, a tight annoyance in her voice. "_Harry James Potter_, I know how you think, and you have to stop with these self-fulfilling prophecies! Your suspicions of him would have put him on edge."

"Self-fulfilling…" Harry trailed off, blinking at his friend, "…what? No, don't put this all on me! I was not suspicious of–" his sentence again dragged off until he sighed, "–he saw through my lie. All right? Happy?"

His friends stared at him in disbelief, previous justified outrage forgotten.

"Blimey." Ron exhaled. "Were you being obvious on purpose?"

"No." He leaned back with a sigh. "Way to rub it in."

"Well, sorry." The redhead replied unapologetically, startled though amused. "But someone didn't believe you? Hah! Finally. Can't remember that happening since Hogwarts. Even in first year you tricked Peeves with that–"

"So this Sherlock Holmes is a detective?" Hermione interrupted.

"Yep. Calls himself a private consulting detective and is blatantly obvious about his 'observations'." Harry rolled his eyes. "Doubt the man could resist showing off if his life depended on it."

"That doesn't remind me of anyone." Ron shifted away from Harry's annoyed look. "What? Just complimenting your auror skills, mate!"

* * *

"I'm tellin' ya." The kid stared angrily at Sherlock. Or, more precisely, at the yellow spray paint that the latter had 'confiscated'. "I don't know anything! How the bloody well am I supposed to know?"

"Judging from the half-finished graffiti and still-wet paint," Sherlock growled, "you've been here since early this evening. Now, what did you see?"

"Nothing!" He said haughtily, tugging his cap down as a passing bike's light made the covered skateboarding park in South Bank glow. "Wasn't paying attention, was I."

"You certainly noticed the two earlier." Sherlock gave a smirk, mentioning how they'd been able to sneak up on the kid without him racing away.

"Because they were birds!" The boy stared at them, incredulous. "Did you _see_ the blonde one? Her skirt was hiked up to here–"

"Did you notice anyone else." John cut him off. "Blokes, not 'birds'. Would've seemed sinister, keeping to the shadows."

"Oh honestly." Sherlock turned his glare to his partner. "Of course they wouldn't."

John blinked, startled by the protest. "What?"

The boy was nodding, joining the consulting detective in his condescension. "You've seen too many movies, mate. 'Sinister' and 'shadows'? If there were any criminals here," the doctor gave a snort that his companions ignored, "they'd have been dressed to the nines. Business suits, probably, to seem all proper."

"Exactly." Sherlock curtly nodded. The kid looked pleased for a moment, until he realised his 'borrowed' paint wasn't going to be imminently returned. "Or else they would have been in the middle, neither formal or informal, making them easy to overlook. So: who did you see?"

"What!" The boy squawked, back to being annoyed. "You just said I'd overlook them!"

"But you've been checking over your shoulder every few minutes for a copper." Sherlock pressed on, taking a step forward. "'Constant vigilance' and all that rot. You would have noticed everyone."

"There. Was. No. One!" The kid insisted. "Just the birds and you two morons."

Sherlock gave him a piercing stare and, after a few seconds and finding whatever he had been looking for, tossed him the paint bottle and swept away. John watched the boy fumble to catch it before rushing to catch up to his friend.

* * *

"I hate Death Eaters." The muffling charm still being in place over the booth, neither Ron or Hermione were much concerned about Harry's outburst. When the press couldn't hear, all was well.

"That's nice." Hermione said, keeping her gaze locked on an article. Her temper, like always, had dwindled away after the first uproar, and now she was happy to let her best friend retake his typical, ranting position. She so loved catching up on these 'working lunches': even when the boys were being prats. Ron was equally happy to continue drinking his butterbeer, though peered around the corner every few minutes in anticipation for his meals. "Oh, Ginny's article is wonderful! An interesting take on Greece's economy; making the metaphor with their failing Quidditch league is quite brilliant. How on earth can she write like this while feeling under the weather?"

"Even with the flu, I think she's having a blast spending more time with the kids–though working from home sounds amazing right now." Harry groaned, staring at his case file morosely. His coffee had long since grown cold. "Especially with these blasted Death Eaters. I mean, I really hate them, and not for the obvious reason! Why can't they be like regular criminals and have plans which aren't horribly convoluted? Merlin, I'm almost expecting this entire thing to end with a villain monologue."

"I hear you." Ron echoed the moan, refocusing after, once again, failing to spot the food. "It's like all these different crimes almost go together, but there's nothing to tie them up. Everything's just getting worse too: first the murders and now Robards on our back?"

"That last one is your own fault." Hermione was still skimming through the _Daily Prophet_.

"I'm not the one who broke into Scotland Yard." Ron shot Harry a glare.

"Come on, like you wouldn't have done it." Harry sent back, but quickly changing the topic went Ron subtly nodded towards his very scary wife. "Could we talk about something real? Like the case or Lestrange?"

"Lestrange?" Hermione perked up in puzzlement. "He was captured by the French then extradited."

"Something's wrong there." Harry tapped his fingers against the files. "I've been saying it from the start. Some muggles captured an ex-Death Eater?"

"It was a French extraction force–"

"I don't care how skilled they are." Harry argued over Hermione's protest. "Do you really think they could take down an armed and dangerous wizard? I'm telling you, Lestrange wanted to be captured."

Ron let out another groan. "Now you know what I've been putting up with. Mate, why do you have to obsess over things?"

"I'm usually right about those 'things'." Harry drily pointed out. "Malfoy, the Deathly Hallows–"

"But it's still mental." Ron shook his head. "Stupid instincts. Why can't you ever just say: 'Hey Ron! Here's A, B, and C reasons why I know I'm right.'"

"Fine." Harry narrowed his eyes. "Hey Ron! Something's not right because, a, Lestrange's an ex-Death Eater; b, he couldn't have been taken down by muggles; and c, I'm sure this is exactly what he wants us to do, and I know I'm right!"

"'C' wasn't actually an argument." Hermione pointed out. "Rather circular as well."

Harry remained focussed on the discussion. "Can't you see the weirdness about this situation? After having next to no activity from this group in years, suddenly five Death Eaters are found murdered, at least another five sympathisers are missing, and a major leader 'let' himself be captured?"

Hermione began to seem a bit swayed. At least, she was nibbling her lip, which meant the same thing to her present companions. "Do you think Lestrange is trying for an alibi?"

"He was captured after three of the murders." Ron disagreed. "Look Harry, this is strange, but coincidences do happen. Aside from Lestrange being a Death Eater there's nothing to link the cases."

"Because we aren't actively searching for it." His partner gritted out.

"Whatever it is," Hermione continued, trying to get to some sort of conclusion, "we don't have enough information. Did the Yard turn over everything about Lestrange?"

"Yep." Harry said without a pause. The others decided it'd be best not to question why he was so confident. "Though–"

"–though?" She queried, folding the newspaper up.

"–this entire thing involves Mycroft Holmes." Harry resisted rubbing his oldest scar. "He was the one whose forces found Lestrange in the first place. Knowing him? He's hiding something."

"So meet with him." Hermione neatly summed up. She glanced at the clock and nodded. "It's still early enough. For all we know you'll get it squared away today."

"Want me to come?" Ron, though uncertain about Harry's suspicions, was already leaving his seat.

"No, I'll be fine." Harry smiled warily, standing and pushing his chair in. "I don't want to ruin both of your lunches on a hunch." For he was perfectly aware of how much free time his best friends lacked, and didn't want to take away a few of the hours they could be together. He was awarded with twin beams, and the couple scooting closer to each other.

"If you're sure?" Ron gave a last question but, at Harry's chuckle, relented. "All right, fine. Thanks mate. I'll send a patronus ahead to make sure an 'appointment's' free?"

"Cheers." Harry gave a last grin, threw down a few sickles, gave Hannah Abbott a wave on the way out, and heading through to the centre of Diagon Alley. Since Ron's spell wouldn't get to Mycroft for a bit, he'd have time for a quick stop at the Ministry to pick up his case file.

* * *

Harry Potter had been in many odd situations. 'Odd' typically meant 'most-likely-grievously-fatal', but today's newest event was merely strange. Of course, if Ginny ever found out he'd likely be running for his life–so perhaps it wasn't that different after all.

For most people, finding themselves in 10 Downing Street would be odd enough; a perk of being a wizarding saviour was that this did not apply to Harry. He'd accompanied Kingsley or Percy here often enough, and had taken undercover guard duty more times than he'd like to remember.

For being a centre of British politics, the Westminster area was rather boring. Or maybe that was just because he was allergic to bureaucracy–thank Merlin he was a field agent. He didn't envy Robards at all: he couldn't even imagine how stifling being the Head of the Auror Department could be.

The thought of boringness brought Harry's mind back to where he definitely did not want to be, and he swiftly averted his eyes from the woman sitting next to him.

"Summoned by Holmes as well?" Said lady examined her fingernails, making curt conversation.

"Er, no." Harry tried not to stumble. He kept his gaze determinedly ahead of him towards the shut door. "Business matter."

"How dull." The woman sighed, uncrossing her entirely bare legs. Harry crossed his own uncomfortably. "At least tell me it's about money? Espionage? Sex?"

Harry winced at the last. "Crime in general. Ah, pardon me but–alright fine, damn it, why are you dressed like that?"

"In my business suit?" She tossed her meticulously pinned-back hair; he again averted his eyes. "Holmes pulled me out of a–transaction. Dreadfully rude of him and that little assistant of his."

Harry didn't want to dwell on what this 'transaction' was. "Christ, he didn't let you get dressed? The hell?"

"Hah!" She huffed, her still bright red lips shining. "He tried to. But I wanted him to learn his lesson." She looked proud then slightly puzzled. "Odd thing was, he started muttering something about 'Not again' and 'Buckingham Palace'."

"Ah." Yes, he definitely didn't want to know.

"Irene Adler, by the way." She said breezily.

"The Woman." Harry wasn't surprised. "Yeah, I've heard about you."

"Oh you have, have you?" Irene leaned towards him. He awkwardly shied away. "Costly wedding ring, gorgeous young man–"

"I'm happily married with kids." Harry quickly corrected, scooting even further. "I meant that I've heard of you from Scotland Yard."

Her expression cleared in record time. "You're with _them_. That makes so much more sense. Well then, don't be rude, who are you?"

"Harry Potter." He was surprised when the woman gave a start, clear even just from his peripheral vision.

"_The_ Harry Potter?" She licked her lips hungrily. "My my, I've been waiting to meet you for some time."

"Er, you have?" He was all but gaping at this point. She had seemed like a muggle, and definitely hadn't recognised him before he said his name. What was going on here?

"I've heard about you from quite a few of my clients." Irene edged forward. Harry climbed into the next seat. "Oh, don't play hard to get. You're already so fascinating!"

"No, no I'm not." He said too quickly.

"Yes, yes you are." She narrowed her eyes, her blood red lips still in a predatory smile. "Mr. Potter, I pride myself in being–acquainted–with every inch of Britain's elite. Your name has consistently popped up in my records but only as glimpses, snatches. A ghost."

"I did say I was with Scotland Yard." Harry spoke evasively.

"No you didn't, not explicitly." She corrected, enjoying the game. "And you aren't. But I don't particularly care about that. What I do want to know is why _your_ name is the one my clients shout right as they're climaxing."

Harry sunk into his seat, taken aback and–let's face it–petrified. He silently cursed karma, fate, destiny, and whatever other force felt the need to screw with him today. Merlin's left toenail, and here he'd thought nothing could get worst than the numerous marriage and mistress proposals he'd used to receive–

"At first I was annoyed." Her lips pursed in a pout, not noticing or, more likely, not caring that she'd scared her companion stiff. "To think that a man was getting into my territory, and one who seemed to avoid me. But now I've meet you."

"Harry Potter is a common name–" he finally managed to say, thankful that his voice didn't squeak.

"Harry James Potter," Irene recited from memory, her back arching, "son of Lily and James Potter, deceased, raised by his aunt and uncle in Surrey. Rumour has it that you were quite a bad boy once upon a time, but official records differ and have you down as attending an elite private school near Edinburgh. No institution's name was supplied. Then, you disappeared from all databases at seventeen. Impressive. I only managed _that_ at twenty-five."

"..." Harry gaped, still focussed on the closed door.

"And now," she continued, "_now_ I find out that you're married and haven't even dreamt of having an affair? Don't look so startled, it's my job to read whether or not someone can be a client. But the question remains: why do you keep stealing climaxes from me?" She sounded put out at the last. "Even my royal acquaintance has been singing your praises."

"…" He weighed the pros and cons of hurtling from the building to disapparate. His face shone a bright red, matching the woman's lipstick.

"Are you James Bond?" Irene tapped her fingers against her bare thigh. "A secret agent, a ghost to all but the elite? But no, that doesn't suit you. You're a fair liar, but you get embarrassed far too easily and couldn't seduce someone to save your life."

"I–"

"I like you," she continued kindly, "but you're an open book. You're also involved with Holmes and have access to the Yard's records. But not only _Mycroft_ Holmes, is it? Sherlock mentioned over lunch about his perplexing new neighbours: two kids, godson, redheaded woman, and a dark-haired man who should/shouldn't work for the police. Now you're here with his brother for a meeting. It's Mycroft you came into contact with first, am I correct? It was he who mentioned a safe flat on Baker's Street?"

Yes, he was definitely getting Hermione back for suggesting he come here. Though, wait, then he'd never live it down.

Maybe it'd be better to take this entire interaction to his grave.

* * *

If Mary admitted it to herself, she did it for the attention. Not only the attention, of course. It was also about the art. Primarily about the art, perhaps. But still: lugging a canvas and paints onto the crowded London Underground took a certain type of determination which 'just art' failed to inspire.

For it would be far easier just to Google Image the dratted thing. So why go to a museum? Simple because there was something about strangers' noticeable envy, of little kids running up to her and gaping in amazement, of the superior anecdotes (along the lines of 'learning from the masters') that she could throw at her fellow art students and, most importantly, the mystery that thus enveloped her in a cloud of hipster avant garde.

Mary told everyone that she did it because she craved the ambiance within the National Portrait Gallery–and she did, in a sense. Either way, she had a bundle of paintings, her teachers' interest, an invisible adoring crowd, and extensive knowledge of how to elbow, knee, and otherwise get herself amble space on the Tube to show for it.

And now she had a pearl.

Shame it wasn't a real one. Goodness knows that would have been a welcome addition to her sparse funds (and would have appeased her jumpy landlord for at least a few months, whilst letting her quit her full-time job of nannying). But if she said it herself, the shading was rather well done.

So. One earring down, and the rest of the sketch to colour.

Mary let out a sigh, accidentally rubbing a smudge of silver acrylic across her cheek. A lingering couple presumed her groan was bohemian angst, and their momentary respect for her and her clumsy drawing grew. But not noticing her momentary audience, her focus shifted onto the painted girl's far-too-intrinsic eye–yet not before she glimpsed the second spotting of magic in her young thirty years of life.

The first had occurred twenty years previously on a family vacation to Sweden. She would never realise that the brush on her arm had been a friendly Crumple-Horned Snorkack rather than her teasing brother. It was a shame; she would have loved to investigate the unknown if she had even the faintest clue.

This second sighting of the impossible also only occurred for a split-second. In a not-so-strange deja vu, Mary dismissed the slight glimmering of the pearl earring as a trick of the light, and was therefore sadly oblivious to the fact that she had been the sole witness to the greatest heist (muggle or magical) of the 21st century.

* * *

John was never certain how he got into these situations. He should blame Sherlock (like always), but he couldn't pretend this one hadn't been his own fault. Though, not entirely. For it was that berk who said that the criminals they were after were likely to sneak up on them, and that he should keep an eye out for anything unusual. Which, on South Bank at this time of night, was surprisingly not a lot.

So when he saw a figure mysteriously appear in a red telephone booth, he instantly jumped to conclusions. Hardly shocking, considering that the person hadn't been there a moment before. With that, when he raced over just as the glass door hinges buckled opened, his mind was too full of trapdoors, intrinsic plots, and evil masterminds to notice his imminent impact.

_OOF!_

"_Gah!_" A feminine voice shrieked out, before they both toppled over onto the concrete. With a fury of hands and remarkably grace-like pose, the woman was arching back to her feet moments after the collision. Almost as immediately, she was pointing an accusing finger and (John squinted, unable to see in the thick darkness) something sticklike at him. Too small for a gun or knife, so nothing to worry about. "_What are you doing?_ Who are you?"

"Err, I–" John fumbled, climbing back up with a wince of embarrassment, "–I'm really very sorry. Are you hurt? I was looking for someone–"

"–so you tackled me?" At least the woman now seemed more incredulous than angry, and had lowered her hand with whatever-it-was in it. He took the moment to notice that she was of medium height, wearing a cape-like coat, and had darkish short hair. Though with the absence of light it was impossible to tell anything else.

"–yes, err, sorry again–"

"How did you appear there?" Sherlock, showing his incredible knack of timing, came up just at this point. A sarcastic note was in his voice, as though he was urging the woman to even attempt to lie.

John didn't have to be able to see to know she had raised her eyebrow. "I was making a call. Minding my own business, when this friend of yours came out of nowhere!"

"You were making a call?" Images of trapdoors fled from John's mind as he reconsidered the situation, giving another glance at the phone booth. It really was impossible to see anything. The logical conclusion? He'd been mistaken about the woman appearing out of thin air. Which, now that he thought about it, sounded completely ridiculous. He fought back a flush. "Christ, I really am sorry. I was on edge: we're searching for someone and–"

"Searching for who?" The woman's form crossed her arms, defiant even as a contour. "After assaulting me, I think I have the right to know."

Sherlock snorted. "Criminals. Who else would be here? Excepting businesswomen like yourself."

The lady sniffed, unamused. "All right then, who is it?"

"Not to be rude but, why do you care?" John paused, surprised that the woman hadn't run off by now. Though he was certainly happy she hadn't called 999 in a rush–something which would have rather awkward to explain. "Again, I'm sorry for knocking into you, but it was an accident."

"She just found out she's pregnant." Sherlock gave an uninterested sigh, going back to scanning the graffitied skateboard park. "The way she's clutching her arms to her torso in a way that's protective rather than painful? You gave her a shock." He turned back to the surprised woman. "Now that it should be abundantly clear that you and your few cells of a child are in no danger, you can go."

The lady stared at him in shock. "Are, are you in the Yard?"

"No." Sherlock replied shortly, clearly not giving a damn. "A private consulting detective."

The woman thus groaned in realisation. This was enough for the men to look over at her, different levels of surprise apparent in both their expressions. "Please, please, please, tell me you're not Holmes. Mycroft? No, wait, it would be Sherlock. Of course."

John glanced over just in time to catch the amusing sight of Sherlock gaping. Seeing that his friend was indisposed, he took up the questioning. "Yes, he is, and I'm John Watson. I would ask if you've seen the blog but–you know about Mycroft? Who are you?"

"H–" the woman paused, as though rethinking something, "–Jane. I'm an acquaintance of Mycroft Holmes for, for political matters and the like."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock finally gritted out, as on-edge as he always was when his brother was mentioned. "There is no reason for you to be with us, in a dangerous place where you know that criminals will be. You're clearly overprotective towards your unborn child: thus, why are you here?"

"I like mysteries. The blob," Jane's voice lit up with the last word, as she finally came nearer and took her hands off of her chest, "will be fine. I can take care of us. So Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson, who are you after?"

"Criminals." Sherlock gave her a long piercing look. John was about to protest her being here when his friend abruptly nodded and pulled them all back into the shadows. "Stay here, stay quiet, and look for anything unusual."

"Holmes!" John whispered as Jane tucked her briefcase into a corner. "Are you _mad_? You can't let a strange pregnant woman on a stake-out!"

"She's barely pregnant." Sherlock dismissed. "She's an asset: connected to the right people, and trained in lethal arts."

It was John's turn to gape. "How could you tell–"

"Likely by me knowing Mycroft." Jane had joined the conversation, and was leaning against the blackened wall while her tone rolled with amusement. "At least, that's how he guessed I was 'connected'. As for me being useful in a fight? Probably by how I moved so quickly after you knocked me over."

Sherlock was staring at her, grudgingly impressed. "Observant. But you missed that I saw you had your foot an inch away from breaking John's neck."

"_You wha–_"

Jane sighed, shaking her head. "There's always something." She groaned. "My husband and brother-in-law basically do this for a living; some of it was bound to rub off."

So here they were. Crouched in the shadows, gazing out into the deserted skatepark. John expected Jane to head off after the first hour. Instead, all she did was send a quick call to her husband–with enough strange words for him to be certain it was code.

In the second hour she offered them both 'chocolate frogs'. John half expected them to start jumping: it was that sort of night. He took one with thanks. Sherlock refused with a scoff.

The fourth hour? Jane and John had long since given up on silence and were whispering horror stories of their friends to each other. Sherlock studiously ignored the both of them. And their giggling.

"–then, if you'd believe it," John huffed, making an expressive motion with his hands, "even with three different blackmail threats it still took Harry a week to tell Claire she'd been the one who'd switched the dyes! The woman's hair was the colour of pink bubblegum for _ages_, and the two of them were together for five years. I kid you not."

"Hah! That's nothing." Jane leaned forward though lowered her voice conspiratorially. "It took my husband four years to notice I was a girl."

"No!"

"Yes!" Jane nodded, sighing at her fate. "We'd been best friends–us and another boy–practically forever, when one year our school had a dance. This oblivious git left asking someone until the eleventh hour. And then? Then, one night in the Common Room he froze, glanced over as though he'd never seen me before, and said incredulously: 'Jane, you're a _girl_.'"

John groaned, patting the poor woman's shoulder in commiseration. "Did you punch or kiss the bloke?"

"Screamed at him, I believe. Then took another boy to the dance." She shook her head. "It took another three years and a camping trip from hell for he to get his head out of his arse. We did finally snog though–"

"Well, that's nice–"

"–before our mutual best friend interrupted us." Jane gave out a chuckle at John's expression. "No, I'm not joking! Oh, you don't even want to hear what my brothers-in-law did at my wedding–"

"_Shhh_." Sherlock shushed, lightly kicking them both for good measure before nodding out into the main area. Both the others hushed, followed the train of sight, and focussed in on the incoming splotchy figures and slight voices.

* * *

**A/N:** My thought process for the 'interesting' scene: 'Ooo, let's have Irene and Harry meet! Maybe at Mycroft's? They'll be waiting for him and talking, and Harry has to get terribly embarrassed about something. About what? Let's see, she can be in her business suit; that'd be funny and uncomfortable. What else? Irene's in the beds of everyone who's anyone in Britain, so that must include magical folk–who have all heard of Harry, so maybe they mentioned him to her. But she doesn't really talk to her clients, right? So where could they have said his … oh. Ohhhh. Right then.'

Come on, like people wouldn't be doing that.

As should be obvious, I love setting up crazy meetings. So how about this: if you review this chapter, I promise to write out a scene with whatever few people from HP/Sherlock you'd like to see in it! Imagine the possibilities: McGonagall and Hudson commiserating over ginger newts, Luna confuddling Lestrade, Mycroft and Portrait!Dumbledore sharing manipulation techniques…

Tell me you're not curious :D


	11. At Flourish and Blotts

**A/N:** UPDATE! Guess who's done with her dissertation and is nevereverever going to read about the French Revolution or Gothic fiction again without throwing the texts out the nearest window? ME! WHOO!

Since that's been turned in, I've been writing fanfiction nonstop. Weellll, that, collapsing for 17 hours, and becoming Head of Ravenclaw of my uni's HP society for next year. Yayness! So I have tons and tons of chapters almost ready to go. One of which is a ginormous one-shot of Doctor Who/Fright Night awesomeness (which is, coincidentally, longer than aforementioned dissertation), where Peter Vincent had a watch that wouldn't open…

Anywho! In case anyone's actually wondering, no, I'm not abandoning any of my fics. A few of them are on halt because of writer's block, but for this story and 'Hallowed Time Twists' I have the entire insane plots planned out. So while I can't promise that updates will be steady, they will be coming.

**General Disclaimer:** If I was Rowling, I'd have milked the fame stuff for all it was worth. Even aside from the constant danger and angst, poor Harry wouldn't get a moment's rest.

* * *

_Jane shook her head. "It took another three years and a camping trip from hell for he to get his head out of his arse. We did finally snog though—"_

_"Well, that's nice—"_

_"—before our mutual best friend interrupted us." Jane gave out a chuckle at John's expression. "No, I'm not joking! Oh, you don't even want to get me started on what my brothers-in-law did at my wedding–"_

_"Shhh." Sherlock shushed, lightly kicking them both for good measure before nodding out into the main area. Both the others hushed, followed the train of sight, and focussed in on the incoming splotchy figures and slight voices. ~~~ From 'Hermione's Helping Hand'._

* * *

By 'slight voices', John meant 'incomprehensible'. In realising this issue, he and Jane frowned while Sherlock outright glared at the men-like shapes starting their conversation, as though they had failed to come through on their end of the bargain.

"Guys?" Jane whispered, making a small noise as she pulled something from her purse. Pocket? Somewhere or other, it was too difficult to see in the dark. "If we make our way over there," a shadow of a pointed finger, "we might be able to hear."

"That's the stupidest thing I've—"

"We'd be right above them." She continued chidingly, but otherwise not seeming to mind Sherlock's inherent rudeness. Both men were taken aback by this. "What do we have to lose?"

Jane had a point, so the three cautiously crawled over closer to the men. Looking back, John realised it was the strangest thing. Okay, not 'the' strangest, but certainly odd. Because the voices remained incomprehensible until Jane suddenly pulled them both to a stop when they were right above them. A moment passed, he felt a weird swish of wind, and suddenly the conversation was entirely comprehensible.

John gawked as the words washed over him. The hell—but before he could question it Jane was poking him, and even in the darkness he just knew she was rolling her eyes at, again, pointing at the men. Who they had been trying to hear. Ah, right.

Setting aside the voice audibility for the moment, John clued into the words themselves.

"—I'm tellin' ya. Rubbish, is what it is." The first person had a grisled, though light and chipped accent. "I'm callin' it now: we're coming out of this with nothing. He'll take the pear' and run."

"Pessimistic, much?" Even with just two words, this man's deeper, aristocratic tone shone through.

"Realist, mate." An unamused laugh. "We? We ought to cut our shares out afore he does."

"I'm sure that'll be appreciated." This one was a woman. American, by the sound of it. Though Sherlock would likely scoff and proclaim her to be Canadian while calling _him_ prejudice. "Could you be any more idiotic, by the way? Ever heard of something called subtlety?"

"No one's here! Asides, not like anyone coul' hear us. So fancy speaking up a tad? My ears aren' as young as 'hey used ta be."

The second man snorted. "I agree on one thing, this entire charade is ridiculous. Why meet here? Mobiles are easy enough, and I don't love being out in the open."

"It's not like this is perfect." The woman hissed. "Of course that or the web would be better. But those idiots aren't as moronic any more and can track those."

"Wha'?"

"Have you been living under a rock?" She sounded more frustrated than angry. "Face-to-face is the only option. That, or Patronuses for anyone who can."

John heard a small gasp from Jane and, before he realised she wasn't about to follow, lost track of the conversation.

"…a house? Anythin'?"

"Traced, traced, and traced. Or could be, paranoid git." The woman said with a scowl. "Just be happy he put a ward around this place. No spells in or out: no recording, no overhearing."

"Bastard." A shiver ran through the second's tone. "Think he'd show some appreciation. But no, don't start—he's a git who keeps his word. That's still worth something."

"Worth more than nothin'." The first grunted. "Still don' like him. An' he's late. But, enemy of an enemy, eh?"

"Fucking Potter." The woman scowled. "Him and that Weasley chit. Blood traitor and mudblood, so high and mighty, thinking they can overturn everything. I'd _love_ to show them how much I appreciate them ruining my business."

The eavesdroppers by now had stiffened in surprise, though John was concerned when he heard Jane's slightly frantic breaths. Was she okay? This seemed a bit of an extreme reaction, though maybe he was just too used to criminals' 'evil plans'. Still, he was pretty certain any random stranger wouldn't have become this obviously anxious. She couldn't know them too, right?

Though maybe John was jumping to conclusions that he and Sherlock knew 'Potter' as well. It could easily be a different one, very common name. 'Weasley', not so much. But now that he thought about it, that did ring a bell. Also, what were those strange words: spells, patronuses and mudblood? Codes? Also, what was that bit about a pearl?

"…finally." The woman breathed out, jerking John back to the precarious reality. "Here's his highness himself."

John squinted as another figure hurried over. He apparently wasn't the only one looking. "Nah, too small. Blood' henchmen."

"'Henchmen', really?" The second voice drawled as the fourth figure came into the area. "Quaint."

"Shut up." The new one barked out in a sharp, commanding tone. There were squawks of protest, until the person (female, a little bit familiar but he couldn't place his finger on it) thundered over them. "Here's the portkey. Greengrass, you've got it?"

"Of course I do." 'Greengrass', the American (Canadian, something) woman snapped out. "But who are you?"

"The middle man." The fourth said drily, insultingly. Again, there was an odd clip to the voice that John _knew_ that he knew, but couldn't for the life of him recall. "You should be happy your employer is paranoid. Makes it more likely we'll all come out rich."

One of the men grunted, in agreement or annoyance John couldn't tell. Either way, the first three thudded over to the third and all seemed to grip something she took from her pocket.

"Right on schedule." The fourth one said emotionlessly. "Three, two, one."

The criminals disappeared. John let out out a squawk and Sherlock a curse, and it was only Jane's quick grab of both of their coats that kept them from falling down into the now-insanely-empty skatepark below.

* * *

The Potters had carefully avoided their flatmates that morning. Or, really, Ginny had forced her husband to stay out of their way. For after receiving an urgent floo from Hermione they were both understandably anxious. The least of their problems had been that the muggles had witnessed a portkey, and it was only quick talking from Hermione that had stopped the obliviators from being called. She insisted that John and Sherlock, though rattled, were convinced that it had simply been advanced technology, and further prodded that it would be inconceivable for a Holmes to even contemplate the existence of magic without hitting them over the head with unsurmountable proof.

Harry had been less than convinced, but turned his attention away when Hermione haltingly mentioned the shadowy threat against them. It took Ginny and her feeding Jamie lines to keep Harry from racing immediately to the Ministry to demand protective custody for his family. Hermione, once she could be heard over the ensuing argument, tiredly told them that Ron had already put the order through, that Baker Street was already under high protective charms, and that they shouldn't worry over goons. Still, they should meet up to discuss what to do, especially since she had another bit of news she wanted to tell them in person. So, lunch? And, if a miracle could happen and the Potters could be—for once in their lives—inconspicuous, in Diagon Alley? She had a few books to pick up.

So, with a last call from Hermione to be, "Careful, you idiots! Or I'll kill you myself! Bye Jamie, bye Albie. Be pesky to your parents—they deserve it.", their plans for Saturday was planned.

Thus, a few hours later, the birds were singing, the sun was shining, and magical beings of all sorts could be seen happily wandering Diagon Alley. Two muggleborns were using their wands brightened with _lumos_es as lightsabers, a petite grandmother was ferociously haggling over _Curse and Counter-Curses (Bewitch your Friends and Befuddle your Enemies with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, Tongue-Tying and much, much more)_, a few cartwheeling fireworks had escaped from Weasleys Wizard Wheezes to fly among and forcibly part the milling crowd outside, and the Potters were taking a tranquil stroll.

Ginny was quite proud to have finally managed to pull Harry away from Baker Street with everyone's memories still in tact (partly, at least). They had both been stressed—what with work, moving, taking care of the boys, the dratted flu that she couldn't get over, and renovating Grimmauld Place—and had more than earned a nice day out, even if it had been prompted by a threat.

Passing Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, she put a hand to her stomach as a spell of queasiness came over her at the pungent smells. She shook the feeling away. Now was not the time to get sick. She just had to breath, relax, and enjoy the peaceful ai–

"_FINITE INCANTATEUM!_" A young woman screamed, triumphantly springing out from behind a barrel in front of them. Ginny cursed and Harry sent a shield charm at his family, but it was too late. She could see her husband's glamour fading and knew that hers must be doing the same.

"OH MY MERLIN!" The witch shrieked gleefully, bouncing from foot to foot and gaining the attention of curious passersby. "_I knew it_. I KNEW IT!"

"Bloody hell." Harry groaned at the screams and the rapidly forming crowd. He peered around for any exit but they were already crammed in by people. "How did she even recognise us? How–" but his voice trailed off as Ginny furiously tugged Jamie and Al's pram away from the woman.

"IT'S AN HONOUR TO MEET YOU!" It seemed the woman could do nothing but shriek. Still, with the excited clamouring of the crowd this was likely the only way she could be heard. "CASSANDRA HEX! Oh god, THE POTTERS! YOUR KIDS! THEY LOOK JUST LIKE YOU!"

The harassed family found themselves squeezed up to Flourish and Blotts' front window. Jamie gazed around curiously, Al began to cry at the noise, Ginny was torn between reassuring her sons and vehemently cursing, and Harry had a death grip on the pram and his wand, trying to recall any loophole in the law that would allow him to hex the crowd. "Why hasn't anyone invented glamours for little kids?" He muttered to Ginny under the roar.

"Ask Hermione." She huffed, having just jinxed a blonde who'd tried to grab Al. "Damn it, also ask why the bloody hell we can't disapparate with kids! Jamie, never repeat what I'm saying!"

"Yes mummy." Though the young boy was clearly stowing away the knowledge for another time.

A flurry of parchment and quills came raining down on them as an all-mighty bellow of "SIGN THIS!" carried out from various areas of the crowd.

"NO, SIGN THESE!"

Harry dived to cover his son's eyes while his angry wife hexed the heaving cleavage attached to the far too thin body. The now Smurf blue and sparkling witch was swallowed up by the churning crowd, but there were plenty of insane fans to take her place.

"GRY-FFIN-DOR! GRY-FFIN-DOR!"

"HARRY! I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABIES!"

"A SHORT EXCLUSIVE FOR _THE PROPHET_? THE READERS WANT TO KNO–"

"DON'T LISTEN TO THAT HAG! I'M HERE FOR _WITCH WEEKLY_, JOANNE ROW–"

Harry jerked as the window give way behind him. Turning around, he felt he had never been more relieved to see Hermione's smiling though concerned face. "Climb up here!"

He quickly tapped Ginny, who also beamed at the sight of her sister-in-law. In short time Jamie and Al had been lifted into their aunt's arms, and Ginny soon followed them through the window (with the minimised pram in her pocket). Harry kept the screaming crowd at bay before rapidly climbing inside as well, slamming the glass and locking charms behind him before any of the people could follow them.

"Never a dull moment, eh?" Ron helped his best mate down from the perch. "Don't worry, all the doors are locked and Hermione's friends with the manager. Big shocker there, huh?"

"Thanks." Harry looked around at his family, a bit unnerved at the wide beams on his close friends' expressions. A brief, crazy thought of polyjuice potion floated through his mind, before he shook his head and told himself to not be so paranoid. He shared a glance with Ginny, who just shrugged and returned to fussing over Jamie, Al, and Rosie with Hermione. He turned back to Ron, who still had an enormous grin on his face. "A spot of luck, I guess."

"You have no idea!" If anything Ron's smile got even bigger. "I feel like I've drunk felix felicis again!"

"You've never taken that potion." Hermione gently chided, though her glow and bright grin never faded.

"I _thought_ I had, which absolutely counts—" Ron waved it away before pausing as his suddenly green sister clapped a hand to her mouth and raced to the front of the story, "—Ginny? You okay?"

"Gin?" Harry went after her in concern, the others at his heels. He paused awkwardly as she ran into the bathroom. "Er..."

"Wait a moment." Hermione, finally frowning, went inside. The men and kids stood there for a moment before retching was heard. Harry's eyes flew open and he (as well as Ron with the kids) barged in without further hesitation.

"Love?" He called out just as the sounds stopped. But as soon as that ended, a shriek had him racing down the short hallway and opening the door to the loo with his wand in hand. What he saw stopped him short.

Instead of a monster or criminal, Hermione had a confused and pale Ginny in a bear-hug. The 'shrieks' were actually the brunette's screams of joy.

"EEEEE!" Hermione's hug practically lifted the redhead off her feet. "I got the news yesterday, _and now you too!_"

"Wha-what?" Ginny finally managed to pull away from her friends, stumbling back on the titles towards her equally puzzled husband. "What are you talking about? I, I feel sick, I just, just need to sit and, and I feel almost as awful as I did with the boys–" her voice stalled in wonder. She raised a hand up to her lips in amazed realisation, "—with the boys. Oh, oh my Merlin..."

The next moment the still-concerned and still-confused Harry had his arms full with his crying though excited wife. "Harry! OH MY GOD!"

He could feel the realisation creeping up on him, but was still too out of it from the crowds' antics, his best friends' behaviour, and his wife's illness to be on top of his game. "What? Ginny, are you all right? Is everything okay?"

"I THINK I'M PREGNANT!" With that, Ginny fell into happy tears on her husband's shoulder, and Harry knew Ron's and Hermione's blinding grins had absolutely nothing on his own.

Jamie blinked up at his uncle. "B'oody hell."

"Bloody hell indeed." Ron, still smiling like a lunatic, ruffled his godson's hair before pulling him and the other kids into the spontaneous family hug.

* * *

"WRONG!" Sherlock roared. John was, for once, tempted to agree with him. Though he wouldn't have shown his frustration by marching around the flat, snapping at Mrs. Hudson, putting recording devices in the Potters' flat (lord only knew how he got in this time), slamming into the other room to have a loud shouting match on the phone with his brother, before returning to pacing the floor. "This entire blasted case is wrong, _wrong, WRONG!_"

"I get it." John sipped his tea, trying to remain calm. "You're having an existential crisis over the existence of, err, mag—"

"_That doesn't exist!_" Sherlock twisted around, steaming. "The disappearance was an illusion, a parlour trick!"

"Don't give me that, you checked for trapdoors: no trace of anything." The doctor mused. "Do you think it was some sort of machine? Like how, what was it, that any unknown tech seems like magic?"

"If you're done butchering Clarke," Sherlock growled, "you have once again managed to 'bring light' to the _one single unimportant_ revelation from last night. Well done, John. What would I _ever_ do without you!"

Offended, John set down his cup and rethought his idea of offering to make a cuppa for his friend. "Without me? Oh, I'm guessing you'd have been shot a dozen times over—half of those from the Yard—and be lying in a ditch or in the Thames!"

"So overdramatic." The consulting detective sniffed.

"Pot meet kettle!" John's eyes narrowed further. He was confused and tired from the stake-out, and his usual patience for his flatmate was running thin. "Fine then! If the sudden disappearance of four people _into nothing_ doesn't matter, what does?"

Sherlock slammed the skull on the table; John was thankful but surprised it didn't break. "The entire thing was a set-up! We were meant to hear every word and see what they did."

John sighed, knowing where this was going. "So you're still convinced Anderson's evil."

"Moran's the only reason we knew to go to Southbank!"

"Anderson."

"Moran!" Sherlock scowled. "Either he or Moriarty was the 'mysterious benefactor'. I doubt the goons knew we were listening, but the masterminds certainly did. Thus, any information received is highly suspect." He grabbed the skull once more and returned to pacing, grabbing his scarf off and flinging it to a chair. "What we know is that they've stolen a pearl. Likely worthless to whatever the true plot is, but it could be a lead. That is, _if_ a pearl had been stolen from Britain recently! I have Mycroft checking international databases."

"Oh, that's what the call was about."

"As well as to ask about any illegal developments in teleportation devices." Sherlock huffed, extremely annoyed. "But there won't be any specific information from that corner. My 'dear brother' told me not to get involved! As though Moriarty could get more dangerous. Mmph, at least this proved that there is such an invention, which is why speculating on its development doesn't matter in the least!"

These words made John think of an earlier event. His eyes narrowed. "Funny, remember how Mycroft gave you a similar warning about the Potters?"

"Of course I remember!" There was a jab of _something_ in this phrase, but before John could work it out Sherlock had moved sharply on. "The Potters are clearly entangled in this mess. Last night made that abundantly clear: there are no such things as coincidences. Especially since Ginny Potter's maiden name was Weasley."

John blinked, decided he didn't want to know how the hell Sherlock knew this, and tried to make more sense out of the chaos. "So, you're going to ignore the 'magical words' as codewords, I assume?"

Sherlock sent him an agitated look. "Obviously they were codes, what else would they be? They're clever. Except for the drop of the names 'Potter' and 'Greengrass', which makes it seem as though those were included for a reason. Practically useless either way, however. The names and accents were too general to pin down!"

"I thought the last one, the woman, sounded a bit familiar." John said thoughtfully, hoping this would calm the other man down. But it had the opposite effect—Sherlock clutched at his hair as a flash of horror crossed his face, before it vanished in the next instant.

"That's the problem!" Sherlock snarled, and John was almost happy to see anger replace the momentary terror. "I know that woman. The accent, the inflection; it's all there! _But I can't bloody remember!_"

"Maybe you do need te—"

"_I DON'T NEED TEA!_" The consulting detective stopped his pacing, twisting to glare at him as his nostrils flared. "Imagine that you've been organising every important memory in your entire life. Every unnecessary detail? Deleted to make room for more! All that remains is an archive of recollections, ones that you can pull forward instantly, piercing them together to solve whatever petty problem to keep from boredom! _Now, imagine, that when you try to bring them up they're missing!_"

"Calm down! Sherlock, you're close to hyperventilating. Maybe this isn't so bad. Maybe you just delet—"

"I DIDN'T DELETE THEM!" He screamed, rage tumbling over as the skull was thrown at the wall with a sickening _Bang!_

That is, a _Bang!_ without a _Crack!_

A beat of silence.

Both men blinked, looked at the unbroken skull, and felt their jaws drop open.

"You know," John hedged once his voice returned, "once you get rid of the possible—"

"Shut up, John."

* * *

**A/N:** *sniggers* Yeah, Sherlock isn't going to believe in magic anytime soon.

As for the Potters, if the celebrity cult in the wizarding world is anything like the muggle world, you know they're screwed. I can totally, absolutely picture people going berserk whenever they spot this family. It would be like if you multiplied the fame of Brangelina with the political power of the Obamas! So, yep, I can definitely see them walking around in glamours.

Oh, and don't give me any of that, 'Magical glamours never existed in canon' silliness. These peeps have disillusionment charms, metamorphamaguses, and a whole stream of inventors like the twins who create magical make-up! Putting in glamours isn't much of a stretch. The best bit? Since they aren't technically canon, I can make up whatever convenient rules I want for them!

**IMPORTANT! READREADREAD!** In other news, say you would love to see a Harry Potter/Doctor Who crossover about the TARDIS crash landing in Hogwarts with Ten and Donna onboard. Then say you'd be interested in seeing a rough draft first chapter of said upcoming fic, a preview which just-so-happens to be in a contest where those who enjoy the fic can *heart* the entry if they liked it. There's a bow tie and fez on the line peeps, and I want to be cool, damn it! The Queen of Cool! Oh, that doesn't sound good at all. Never mind, never saying that again. Anywho, thank you so much and I hope you enjoy this little story (just delete the brackets around ':/'): http**[:/]**figment**.**com/books/605448-Right-Magic-Magic-eh-Maaagggiiic- 


	12. The Boggart In The Wardrobe

**A/N:** Yeah, I'm out of my denial: I'll never update frequently. How dare my real life of an impending graduation, moving flats, and the organisation of trips interfere with fanfiction awesomeness? Horrific, I swear. But I do have rough drafts of the following three chapters. These next few updates will also _finally_ show the main conflict of the story and will explain much of the ensuing mysteries.

A HUGE thank you to all the wonderful people who checked out my Figment writing (with a particularly big hug of gratitude and red vines to the amazing Tzadikim!). Also, an enormous thank you to my boyfriend (Bludger1) and beta (Spellmugwump97**)**!

**General Disclaimer:** I'm definitely not Rowling, because she and other actual authors are smart enough to realise that crossovers are ridiculously stupid ideas that should never be contemplated, let alone written. The horror! The complicated mess of characters and horror! _Escape while you still have a chance!_

* * *

Harry knew that the Holmes brothers would be the death of him. Whether it was through Mycroft's ridiculous bureaucracy in extraditing criminals or Sherlock's constant attempts to stretch his paranoia to its limits, he didn't know. But every new blasted incident made him long for the times pre-Holmes. Christ, he was even starting to miss Voldemort! At least that nightmare was only an uncomplicated fight between 'good' and 'evil'.

It wasn't as though Harry didn't sympathise with the genius, sociopathic brothers. Coming up against a world of magic and attempting to rationalise it was no easy feat, and he had nothing but admiration for Mycroft in managing to even partly reconcile the two. Nor did he blame Sherlock for trying to comprehend all the strange things that were going on; in fact, he felt a pang of guilt for adding to the confusion. So, sure, Mycroft was a bit of a ponce and Sherlock was too damn observant for his own good, but John Watson was a friendly enough bloke. Thus the obliviations, at first, were only because the men were getting too close to the truth for comfort. Harry was actually a bit surprised that Mycroft wasn't badgering for Sherlock (as well as John) to be brought into the fold, but figured this was from a combination of a want to shield his younger brother, and to protect wizarding society from the world's only private consulting detective. The auror was grateful for the last.

The real issue began when Sherlock Holmes made a habit of breaking into his flat. Magical and muggle security was heightened, and Harry tried to avoid Holmes at all costs. Ginny was more relaxed and saw the humour in it, but as Holmes had passed it off as a simple thing to accomplish he worried that others with an intent to harm his family would find it equally simplistic.

With all of this, Harry felt he'd been fairly restrained thus far. Sure he'd erased a few events here and there, but not nearly as many as the others accused him of. Besides, he was busy on things more important than worrying about hurting Holmes' feelings. There were the happy thoughts of renovating Grimmauld Place for their bigger family and the new baby (he couldn't help but broadly grin when remembering the past Diagon Alley visit). But there were also the more irritating situations, ranging from auror politics, his evolving cases, increased suspicious murmurings of _something_ (which was driving the entire Department mental. These days Robards could give Moody a run for his money, and Deputy Head Flint was nowhere to be seen), Hermione's recent warnings of threats against his family, and that all of these threats seemed to tie the Dancing Men murders with both the muggle and magical worlds. He longed for his family to be as far away from these serial murders as possible, and it was only Ginny's stubbornness that stopped him from dragging them to the nearest international portkey. So he'd instead, once again, added to the already heightened security, making it so that their flat was practically impenetrable to any criminal.

Which was why Harry was so pissed off at finding the listening device this morning. Now, standing stormily in 221B as John swirled his tea and Holmes raised an unimpressed eyebrow, it could barely resist punching that smarmy git in the nose. "_What the hell?_"

"Told you it was a bad idea." John groaned while Sherlock looked unapologetic. The former turned to the irritated wizard with a sigh of understanding. "Are you sure you don't want a cuppa? It makes dealing with him so much easier."

"_No! I don't want any blasted—_" Harry steamed before, closing his eyes, took a few calming breaths and forced himself to remember that John was probably not at fault, "—thank you, but no. What I want to know is what Holmes was thinking, and _how the hell he broke into my flat!_"

"What I was thinking," Sherlock replied almost as snappily, digging his palms into the table, "was that you were hiding secrets that tie you directly into an extensive criminal organisation. Thus, the more pertinent question is: _how did you find the recorder!_"

"Tell me how you broke in!" Harry gritted out, his rage tangible. "My family could've been home, _you bastard_!"

"_How did you find it!?_"

"TELL ME RIGHT NOW!"

"YOU SAY IT FIRST!"

John, blinking, looked between both of the standing figures as the two men huffed with anger. "You're…actually identical."

"BE QUIET!" They screamed in unison before glaring at each other. "TELL ME!"

"Yep, both insane." The doctor sniggered, stirring a spoon idly around his mug as he was again directed with raging stares. "You're missing the main questions, anyway."

"What?" Harry calmed down slightly, though still sent daggers at the still-unapologetic consulting detective.

"He's _Sherlock_. Figuring out unsolvable puzzles is what he does. Don't worry about your security, I'm sure it's fine. As for you," John waved the spoon slightly at his annoyed friend, "you're probably asking about a symptom rather than the main thing."

"Oh?" Sherlock huffed. "Fine then, tell me. With all of your detective expertise, what should I have asked?"

John sighed at his friend's arrogance before turning to Harry with a knowing smile. "Do you believe in magic?"

The wizard felt a weight in his stomach plummet. This man couldn't actually know, could he? But he seemed so assured. "What? No, of course not. Who does?"

"Plenty of people." John's grin only widened at seeing the stupefied expressions on both the others. "If you travel enough you come across tonnes of unexplainable things. The oddest was when I was in the war and a native informed me of exactly how he was going to die."

Sherlock scowled. "Really John, this superstition is—"

"He was correct down to the number and placement of the bullets." He continued, sending him an impervious glance before redirecting his gaze to a befuddled Harry. "So, again: do you believe in magic?"

"I do." All three jumped and spun around at the woman's voice from the doorway. Irene Adler was leaning against the wall, a silky kimono falling around her as she delicately fingered a Blackberry. "Doesn't everyone? The mysterious, the exotic, the unattainable, the desirable longing just out of reach—it is simply irresistible. Like a ripe cherry crying out to be _plucked_."

"Right." John cleared his throat as the men stared open-mouthed at the cheekily grinning dominatrix. "Not exactly what I meant but, sure. Oh, wait. Introductions. Harry, this is Irene Adler. Irene—"

"Harry James Potter." Irene drawled, sweeping closer. "An irritating thorn in my side who keeps stealing all the cherries that should be mine. We've met."

"You two know each other?" John said in surprise as Sherlock narrowed his eyes distrustingly.

"We've met." Harry repeated with a sigh before addressing Irene. "Could you not say it like that? We both know I never 'stole the cherries', or whatever euphemism you want to use! Again, I'm married. With kids. Most definitely not a threat, in case you hadn't noticed."

"You're still taking away business." The woman huffed, undeterred as she took an uninvited seat. "Even more infuriating is that I cannot figure out how."

"Join the club. We're voting magic." John said faux cheerily. Harry and Sherlock groaned for opposing reasons. "Want to compare notes?"

Irene smiled, her ruby red lips practically glinting. "There's a thought. I assume you know this mysterious man is connected to Mycroft Holmes. What you might not be aware of is that my most select clients scream out _his_ name more than my own or Jesus Christ."

Sherlock raised a single eyebrow as Harry felt a familiar flush sweep across his cheeks. John choked on his tea, having unwisely taken a sip. It took a few moments before he could sputter out, "You're joking!"

"I only wish." Irene turned an irritated stare towards the fidgeting, red man in question. "Imagine my annoyance when I learned that my 'main competitor' was a man _who wouldn't dream of cheating on his wife!_ God, I hate you. Unlike some others in this room, I do not enjoy an unsolvable problem. My contacts are clueless, Mycroft is as silent as ever, and even my royal connection refuses to say a word. So I came to the source and had a spot of tea with your wife."

"You did _what?_" Harry gaped, not expecting this.

"Lovely woman, as is Mrs. Hudson." Irene continued, undeterred. "A refreshing sense of humour—but do tell her I wasn't joking about the ménage à trois. I always love a ginger in bed; so feisty. We did get around to business eventually. Ginny was rather amused at my problem, but refused to answer my question and, instead, sent me up here." She sent a shocked Harry a glare. "So?"

Harry's hesitant answer was side-stepped as a haughty Sherlock turned to him, both still standing. "Who the hell are you?"

"Nobody!" Harry instantly answered, equally stubborn. "Just Harry. There's nothing mysterious or, lord, 'magical' about me."

"Uh huh." Irene leaned back, fingers wrapping around her hair as she stood as well. "Either way, I do love a ginger and a Casanova-in-denial. But I have an appointment, and it's obvious enough I'll get more details from your wife. Ta!"

"Wait, no—" Harry broke off as Irene swept back through the door, leaving as quickly as she'd arrived. The men stared after her for a moment, uncertain about the storm that'd rushed by them, "—I'm, I'm sure Ginny was joking." He finished tiredly, losing steam in his confusion. Though he did send one more glare at Sherlock. "_No more breaking into my flat!_"

Sherlock snorted, anger diluted as he retook his seat, hands and fingers crossing in front of him. "You're a puzzle. I can't help it."

"You're such a bloody child. Worse than all mine combined." Harry groaned, pushing his glasses up to rub between his eyes. "You're all mental! How do you even know that woman? Completely, ridiculously mental."

"Better than being in league with Moriarty." Sherlock sniped once more, nostrils flaring as he ignored John's warning glance. To Harry's confused look he merely sneered. "Or do you know him as Anderson? You're another undercover agent. I'm on to you, and I'll get rid of your agency again."

Harry blinked. "I haven't the faintest what you're on about." Though the name Moriarty did ring a few bells. Wasn't he a muggle crime lord that'd died awhile back? He recalled that the story involved the Holmes brothers, but couldn't remember the details.

"Of course you don't." Sherlock snapped, patience reaching its limits as he tightly clenched his knuckles. "Highly advanced technology for both disappearances and erasing memories? It has Moriarty written all over it, and whichever way I investigate this 'dancing men' _your name continuously pops up._ Funny how that works, hmm? From Adler to this, your moniker seems almost magical—no John, don't say a word!"

Moriarty and the Dancing Men? Harry froze, for in fact this name _hadn't_ popped up in the aurors' case. Maybe they'd been overlooking the muggle line too much. Still, he knew he couldn't afford to overlook this new lead now that he was aware of it, for what with Sherlock's numerous faults the man was still a criminology genius. "Why do you think Moriarty is to blame?"

"You aren't concerned that your name came up?" John asked with more curiosity than accusation.

Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm helping investigating the case and the wankers are starting to target me because of this. Of course my name's involved. So, Moriarty?"

John, taking in Sherlock's closed expression, sighed and took it on himself to explain. "Sherlock's convinced that a forensic scientist with the Yard, Anderson, is in fact Moriarty's right-hand man: Sebastian Moran."

Again, the name rang a few warning bells in Harry's head. Something about a hired gun… "You've gone to the Yard with this?"

But looking at the exchanged glance between the two the negative answer was clear. Harry frowned. Why would they both look so distrusting? He paused, scrambling to recall more details about Moriarty. First name, Jim or James, but there was controversy surrounding a fake name. Oh right, he'd claimed to be an actor hired by—Sherlock.

Harry's breath halted as he remembered the rest: an orchestrated plot by Moriarty to ruin Sherlock's reputation, where the Yard and press turned against him and where the two at the heart of the conflict had jumped from a roof (one by choice, the other to protect his family). The aurors had looked into it briefly, but Mycroft and other sources had assured them there was no magic involved. But still, with this, the answer to Harry's question was obvious. Amid a bit of guilt for bringing it up, the wizard felt admiration for the usually infuriating detective. "You don't trust them."

"Not with this." Sherlock said stiffly, fingers slightly loosening from their clench.

"Can't say I blame you." No, Harry couldn't. The story was all-too familiar. Merlin only knew it took him ages to stop looking in paranoia over his shoulder when starting at the Ministry, his time as 'Undesirable Number One' all too fresh. It would've been even worst if his friends and coworkers had turned against him, ready and willing to believe he was a murderous psychopath (children's mob hysteria in the face of a basilisk hardly counted). So though he remained pissed off at having his flat broken into, his grudging respect for Sherlock couldn't help but grow. "You can't risk them siding with Anderson. Moran. Whoever. Do you have any proof? Are you doing your own investigation?"

Sherlock seemed wary and mildly surprised at these almost concerned questions. Harry, again, couldn't blame him. "The proof is circumstantial at best and the 'investigation' is intertwined with the Dancing Men case."

"Of course it is." The auror sighed. "It's like everything is these days. From the French group, British murders, stolen pearl—"

"You know about the pearl?" Of course the ever-suspicious Sherlock was quick to pick up his slip.

"I have my sources." He edged. "Being outside of the Yard has its perks, something you must know. But still, now Moriarty, Moran, and a possible spy at the heart of the case? That would explain a lot, from who the leak is to how the press keeps getting their information. Do you know what they're after? It can't just be about murders or a single pearl."

John gaped from one man to the other. 'You—wait, you believe Sherlock that Anderson is really Moran?"

"Don't know either way, so why not." Harry shrugged as Sherlock sent him an inscrutable stare. "You believe in magic, you're not one to talk. But again, do you have any leads at all on what they're ultimately after, or after next?"

Sherlock still looked wary, though Harry's proclamation of his belief hedged this somewhat. "Depends. Who do you work for? What do you know about the inventions? Can memories be returned?"

Harry silently cursed. Figures. Right when he was ready to play nice this comes back to haunt him. The silver lining was that Sherlock's distrust seemed to have shifted from him to the criminals, so if he was vague… "Who I work for doesn't matter, except that we're the good guys. We don't have much information on the 'tech' so anything could be possible. I'm trying to offer a truce here. We both need each others notes, and I just want you and this blasted case out of my hair. So, do you have any leads on the next targets?"

"Hmm." Sherlock eyed him speculatively. "You aren't nearly as moronic as you appear." Harry fought to keep back a sarcastic reply at this little quip. "If you know about the pearl and the threats on your family, you're acquainted with 'Jane'."

"Who?"

"A businesswoman, short hair, very good at defence, recently pregnant. She invited herself on a stake-out the other night." Oh, _Hermione_, Harry realised in an instant. Sherlock closely watched his expression before stating his conclusions slowly, unsurprised. "So she was giving a fake name and you two work together. I'll assume then that you know everything that happened in Southbank. Do you agree that the 'disappearing machine' hardly matters?" John squawked out a protest at this new information but Harry merely nodded. Sherlock finally grinned, though it was more of a smirk. "Good, at least someone has something resembling brains—don't look so insulted John, it was simply an observance. The next targets should then be obvious: the Potters and the Weasleys. Your family and your wife's."

Harry blanched, having already known this but despising the reminder. "We're under extensive protection." He said stiffly, sending Sherlock another frown. "Though a few prats can break though it, the measures we've taken will stop most."

"Is that enough?" John asked, concerned. Unsurprising, seeing as how he was likely one of those who'd broken in—reluctantly or otherwise.

"I've tried sending them out of the country." Harry sighed, putting aside the other issue for the moment. "But you've met my wife. Her family is, if anything, even more stubborn." Realising something he preemptively sent a warning glare at Sherlock. "_Don't you dare think of using them as bait!_"

"I wasn't going to." Sherlock answered balefully, unconcerned and not insulted by the suggestion he'd do such. "'Human bait' is a solution more in line with my dear brother. I prefer other tactics. For starters, theorising the enemies' targets. As you so bluntly said, a plot this wide cannot only be geared towards murder and the thievery of a single pearl, whatever that 'pearl' may be."

"The people killed all had criminal ties." Harry muttered from memory, easily recalling the details of the case that had haunted him for far longer than he'd prefer. "Mainly to a terrorist organisation called the Death Eaters, but each were also connected to petty crime, trade, or politics. They were mostly 'unfavoured' persons in prominent criminal families."

"Death Eaters?" Sherlock mumbled, the name clearly familiar if faint. Harry didn't mind giving away this tidbit—the basics of the group, minus magic, were already on the Yard's databases. "Connected to Rodolphus Lestrange?"

Oh, maybe the name wasn't so unknown to Holmes. "Yes, we think he might be one of the main leaders. Though my superiors are happy he's been captured—"

"—you think it was too easy." Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he stared into the distance. "I saw the details in Mycroft's database."

"Which he hacked into." John helpfully supplied. Sherlock sent him a blithering glare.

"The French ops went like clockwork." Sherlock continued, a small growl of annoyance in his voice. "The entire thing was without a hitch: no casualties, no injuries, a major terrorist captured, and everyone getting home time for dinner. That _doesn't happen!_"

"At last someone agrees." Harry groaned, frustrated at all of the loose strings without a secure knot to tie them together. "Lestrange is the centre to this, I know he is; the one prominent person attached to all the families involved. He wanted to be captured. He wanted an alibi."

"You think he's the ringleader." Sherlock contemplated, going over to grab John's laptop from the coffee-table (amidst his half-hearted protest) and logging into his database. "Rodolphus Lestrange: entire family was in the Death Eaters, but most are now deceased. Almost nothing is known about him except that he was raised in London, was married to Bellatrix Lestrange née Black, a legally insane terrorist rumoured to be the mistress of the group's main leader—"

"You have a database of criminals on my computer." John said, his tone one of reluctant acceptance rather than surprise. Harry bit his lip, avoiding a smile as the thought of 'plausible deniability' surfaced in his mind.

"—of course I do, John, keep up." Sherlock didn't pause in his clicking and scrolling. "Lestrange hasn't been publicly seen since the downfall of the Death Eaters in 1998, but has been linked with various pseudonyms. He had enough ties to Moriarty to be rumoured to be 'Sebastian Moran' for a time, though not in any official capacity, merely the Yard's speculation. I also assumed that until Lestrange was sighted in a public murder in Munich half an hour before Moran was confirmed through his weapons and fingerprints as the assassin of a politician in New York. Mycroft's forces recently captured Lestrange, which would explain the general lack of information." He scowled at the thought.

"Mycroft doesn't know much more." Harry dismissed, though he dwelled on the new facts. The small timeframe between the murders would be a perfect alibi in the muggle world, but magical transportation could easily allow it. This could still be a coincidence but something about it nagged him. Lestrange being tied to this Moran was a possibility. "I've already met with your brother about this."

"He was lying."

"He wasn't." Harry repeated, raising an eyebrow. "I think I can tell if someone's lying to me. All Mycroft knew was that he was capturing a dangerous terrorist with extensive ties to international criminal organisations."

"It's _Mycroft_." Sherlock scowled as he snapped the laptop shut. "He's hiding something."

"Does that really matter?" John spoke up, annoyed and tired of being dismissed. "Weren't you trying to find the next targets and whatever this man's after?"

"You're right." Harry sent him a weak grin. "So Lestrange wants revenge on those who helped his fall last time, and people who're going up against him now. He likely stole some sort of pearl and is connected to this wider case. But all of that's still too little. What's he hoping to achieve?"

"Global domination?" John tried. "Nuclear codes? The world's riches?"

"All of the above?" Harry gave an unamused laugh, threading his hands through his already messy hair. "We don't have enough information, the 'Dancing Men' codes are unsolvable, and because of bureaucracy we can't interrogate Lestrange. Could we lean on this Anderson man?"

"It's uncertain how much he's aware we know." Sherlock said, absolutely no amusement in his voice. "While he led us to Southbank, he might think we believe he's in league with Moriarty rather than being Moran himself."

"Do you have any other suspicious cases?" Harry tried again, his tone having an edge of frustration. "Ones that don't make sense? The box with the book was strange, but I've already tried everything and that's a dead end."

A beat of silence, before…

"John." John muttered quietly. The other two looked at him oddly. "No, not me. John 2. John Openshaw."

Harry recalled helping with a hyperventilating man, and Ginny mentioning the case a bit later as something unusual. "You wrote it up in your blog, didn't you? Something about the disappearance of various family members?"

John nodded. "Two brothers, who were John's dad and uncle, turned up dead after being threatened. The notes were—"

"_Death Eaters!_" Sherlock's eyes widened. "_D.E._ The remaining members were threatening them. Oh, this is good! Though hardly original using orange pips."

"—apparently from Death Eaters, I guess." John continued on, Sherlock's interruptions being a normal occurrence. "Each letter contained five orange pips, something used in the States ages ago by the KKK to threaten members who'd betrayed them. The entire case had ties to the US, now that I think about it. Didn't the father become rich there?"

"The uncle." Sherlock corrected impatiently, fingers pressed together under his chin. "Both men were threatened to return papers before being killed. One in the fireplace, which the man had boarded up for an unknown reason, while the other was beheaded. 'John the Second' received a letter, came to us, and disappeared in the middle of Scotland Yard."

"No clues were left behind?" Harry's query wasn't actually a question. He couldn't recall seeing the name Openshaw on any list of Death Eaters, but the cases seemed similar. 'Boarding up the fireplace' meant that the man was not only at least aware of wizards, but had gotten on the wrong side of a magic user. A rich family would have been able to provide financial backing, or could have refused to have done so. But if the people behind the threats wanted the return of papers a change of heart seemed more likely. "They might have financially backed a criminal group before switching sides."

"Obviously." Sherlock scowled. Harry was too used to the man's lack of social propriety to bristle or be offended. "_If_ there is a link between the cases, it means that Moriarty is collecting extensive international wealth for something."

"To rebuild his organisation?" John tried.

"He's already done that." Harry couldn't help but be excited, finally feeling as though they were getting somewhere with this blasted case. "At least, if Moriarty is behind all of this, he's already gotten goons. He might even be—" he paused, realising the conclusion of this train of thought like a stab in his chest, "—trying to restart the Death Eaters." The others took this more in stride, knowing little about the possibilities therein. "Which is bad. Very bad. Remember the terrorist attacks in the '90s? The vast majority of those were perpetrated by this group."

"Decapitate the head and the rest will follow." John suggested mildly, stirring his tea reflexively.

"They're a hydra." Harry frowned in disagreement, stating this with clear disgust. "Their first leader died years ago. But if they're still around? I promise you that if one's killed the head will surely regrow."

"So take out all three at once." Sherlock pointed out simply, fingers nettling beneath his chin. "Collapse the ground from beneath it. Push it off a cliff. Nuke it, if nothing else." He paused, an unamused smile drifting over his lips. "Give it a blasted Fall…"

* * *

It had been mere minutes since Harry's impromptu 'truce' and exchange of information with the occupants of 221B had ended, and his mind was abuzz with new, dangerous possibilities. But for now, with his smirking wife now in front of him, only one question came to the forefront.

"A threesome?" He asked exasperatedly, closing the flat door behind him.

"Hello to you too." Ginny chastely kissed him as he shrugged off his coat.

"Irene Adler is mental." Harry firmly stated while taking the nonsensically jabbering baby from his wife's hands. "Hi Albie! Had fun with mummy today? Did you learn any new, inappropriate words?"

"Hilarious." She rolled her eyes, not bothering to be surprised. "I was obviously joking. Still though, Irene is lovely."

"You can't be serious."

"I was bored and we had a very pleasant tea." She grinned at her husband's look of disbelief. "I ran into her in the corridor, and when Mrs. Hudson stepped out for a moment she invited us in. The boys were actually behaving and the conversation was charming."

"Full of sexual deviation?" Harry gently adjusted his hold of the fidgeting child.

"Only when Mrs. Hudson took Jamie and Teddy to check on the biscuits." Ginny pulled the other two to the couch. "The boys are still down there, by the way. I'm not sure who's holding the others hostage, but there's plenty of sugar and puppy dog faces involved in either case."

"Can we get back to your chat with Irene Adler?" Harry sighed, barely noticing Al slobbering over his thumb though shifting him away from the edge of his lap.

"It was enlightening." Her beam simply increased. "Who'd have guessed my husband's more popular than Jesus? You've managed to really irk her, sweetie."

"I got as much." He said in little more than a groan. "But really, The Woman? You do know she's one of Britain's most infamous escorts?"

"Of course I do." Ginny waved this 'revelation' away. "I've heard Hermione and Fleur rant about her at muggle social functions often enough. I think I've even run into her in passing a few times myself."

"So you agreed to have tea with her?"

"Again, I was bored." She explained slowly to his poor male mind. "My article was done and I was bringing the boys back from the park. When she asked I thought, why not? No harm done. I didn't let anything slip, got to brush up on my innuendoes, learned that more than a few witches, wizards and royalty hold you in extremely high esteem—"

"—and you volunteered us for a ménage à trois." He cut in drily.

"Only a little bit." Ginny had to laugh at his look. "What? She offered us a fantastic discount. I'm assuming she did find you eventually?"

"When I was talking to Holmes." Harry said, pushing the discount comment to a distant corner of his mind. "The git broke in. Again."

"What?" Ginny paused, amusement filtering out of her smile. "He was able to even with the protections? Merlin, we've got to leave! I'll grab the boys, you get the bags and—"

"I've already fixed the problem." Harry quickly reassured her, irritated at himself for the poor phrasing. "As much as Sherlock Holmes' an annoying git, he is a genius. We're safe, we're fine. Only people invited into the building can get in."

"But that means—"

"I've had a word with Mrs. Hudson and both Holmes and John know the danger." He continued appeasingly. "Whatever the case, _our_ flat is impenetrable now. Someone will need a direct invitation from either you or me to even see the door. Okay?"

"Okay." Ginny sighed, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as Al switched from Harry's thumb to nibbling his shirt collar. "What with these threats and…who am I kidding. I've been nervous ever since those fans found us."

"The two girls?" Harry smiled. "I tracked them down after John mentioned them to you. That's not a problem. They're friends with one of your old teammates, and when they got drunk she—"

"—told them our new address." Ginny finished, groaning. "Of course someone did. What is it with Quidditch players and drinking? Still, at least it's not a threat."

"Exactly." Harry pulled both her and Al close. "We're safe, it's fine. Holmes—Sherlock, that is—and I are even working somewhat together on a case. Everything's perfect."

Amid Ginny's small noise of surprise at the news, a few events happened simultaneously to cap off this pronouncement. The flat's door burst open with shrieks of laughter and Harry was tackled by the sugar-high, hyper-excited Jamie and Teddy. Ginny quickly grabbed Al away from the fray, but otherwise laughed happily at her husband's predicament.

Only seconds later a small buzzing came from Harry's pocket. Ginny, to his beseeching look, rolled her eyes, picked up the mobile and flipped it open. After only a slight pause over the buttons to calm herself, she held it between her ear and raised shoulder like a pro. All the while she carefully kept a tight hold on the fidgeting Al while Harry tried to keep the other two from falling off the couch while keeping their shouts to a dull roar.

"Hello? OI!" Ginny grimaced and pulled the device away from her ear. She quickly shouted back at the poor receiver. "SPEAK SOFTER OR GIVE IT TO HERMIONE! No, it's me you moron. Harry's being attacked by the kids. Yeah, hmm, great. Yes, I'm fine. Positive. Been through this twice, remember? Don't worry about our protections. No, I'm not leaving the country! You're worse than Harry…huh. Okay. Yeah yeah, I'll tell him, but I was hoping for some well-deserved family time. What? This really can't wait until tomorrow? I know it's a lead but we haven't had a moment to ourselves and—FINE! Yes, he'll meet you there! You're such a git. It had better only be an hour or you'll be seeing bat-boogies for a week. No, I'm not out of practice! BYE!" She stormed, snapping the phone shut while rocking a giggling Al.

"Ron then?" Harry asked, wincing as Jamie prodded him with his own glasses. He'd never understand why they were apparently so fascinating. He was missing Teddy's old preoccupation with Ginny's shiny—and extremely pully—hair, though he was sure she didn't share his sentiment. "How's he and Hermione? What's the lead?"

"Hermione's fine, Ron's Ron, and the lead's on the pearl." Ginny sighed, putting the phone on the table before holding Al closer to her. "Ron figured out what it is and where it was stolen from, and wants you to meet him at headquarters before heading out. There was something about the National Portrait Gallery."

"The, the Gallery?" Harry paused as realisation swept over him. _That pearl?_ Ron had better be joking. "Oh shi—shoot." He changed the word as he struggled up, sending a grateful look to Teddy as he took Jamie. "Sorry, this could be pretty bad. I know we were going to spend the afternoon in, but I'll be home as soon as possible."

"Go, it's fine." Ginny gave him a kiss as Teddy made a face. "I have an article to finish up and I'll take care of the munchkins. Don't worry about us! Go save the world."

"You're incredible." Harry gave her a gentle smile before giving them all quick hugs. "I swear I'll be back soon. Promise!"

"Just go!" Ginny laughed as he swept her into another kiss. Then, grabbing his coat and phone, he raced out of the flat. Once the door had shut she turned to her three impatiently waiting boys with a smile. "So, is Mrs. Hudson finished with her biscuits or does she want a hand?"

"_Yay yay yay!_" Jamie squirmed out of Teddy's hold, imitating his father in making a hasty beeline for the exit.

* * *

A certain aspect of magical security was the best-kept open secret in the wizarding world. Magical security itself wasn't particularly a hidden art: even squibs and muggleborns' parents were versed on the benefits of warding, and everything from the fidelius charm to dragons lurking in the depths of Gringotts were told as bedtime stories ("Sweetie, your pygmy puff is taking a vacation. Under a heavy fidelius. Yes, that's right. No, of course the kneazle didn't eat him! Such an imagination you have"). Interestingly then, the only truly guarded secret along these lines could be worked out by anyone given a few minutes and a wee bit of common sense. Luckily for global wizarding law enforcements, Hermione Granger was quite right to state that most of the greatest wizards (or otherwise) hadn't an ounce of logic.

Entering the aurors, Harry had been surprised to learn this 'secret of secrets', as obvious in hindsight as it was. What he didn't at first understand was why Ministries the world over were so adamantly secretive about how they were providing magical security to muggle landmarks. It was in his second month on the job that the answer became clear when a half-blood was caught breaking into the Louvre. The criminal in question had already been involved with a dozen heists, and the only reason he'd been nabbed with an Edgar Degas and worn invisibility cloak was that _he hadn't bothered to check for wards_.

Harry understanding of the situation was further increased after seeing the statistics showing that most of the world-class burglars in Azkaban had been caught because they'd gotten cocky and went after the muggles. It was perturbing to learn that the Egyptian pyramids really were cursed and that Edinburgh Castle's armoury would attack any intruders without mercy, but it made quite a lot of sense. Perhaps most interestingly, it was when muggle and magical security were mixed that things got—creative. Hermione had gone into full-on research mode in discovering this, and for ages all she would talk about were the spells involved to make non-magical portraits partly sentient ('The Scream' had a particularly effective security measure), how the Bodleian Library's chained books bound thieves up tight and, most unbelievably, how the Statue of Liberty could move while releasing time magic and memory charms. She explained that the last was a last-ditch attempt to defend New York against monsters/aliens/superheroes. Harry decided that he really didn't want to know, and made a mental note to never ask her about Tokyo.

Furthermore, this global protection of muggle assets was used as a brokering device between every country's two governments. Everyone involved wished to protect their national treasures, and coming together for this common cause generated better relations all around. So it was that most masterpieces—muggle or magical—were widely untouchable, and the massive temptation of 'unguarded' museums held the ultimate trap for wizarding criminals.

Typically, this was wonderful. Except for the few exceptions, such as when the British aurors discovered that a pearl was missing and realised that, without more information, trying to even find which it was would be like searching for a needle in a pile of needles. Needles which replicated themselves with every false try. So though Hermione's clue was interesting, Harry had been at a loss as to where to start and had been convinced that Sherlock Holmes' lead about a mole would be their best bet (because Merlin only knew how many 'Crown jewels' the British Empire had collected/stolen/borrowed-with-the-intent-to-retur n over the centuries).

Which was why Harry was so relieved that Ron had found something. He was a little less relieved, after a hurried conversation at auror headquarters, to learn that the pearl in question had been in the National Portrait Gallery and had, indeed, been the very pearl he worried it had been…

"WEASLEY! POTTER! OFFICE!" Harry and Ron paused on their way out the door, turned back at the shout, and reluctantly made their way towards the Head Auror's dulcet tones. Their coworkers sent them understanding and sympathetic glances.

"What did you do, break into Downing Street? Took an international portkey to the Oval Office?" Ron groaned, only half joking.

"Oh ha ha." Harry rolled his eyes, pulling his coat back on as they walked. "I haven't done anything illegal."

"_Your_ definition of illegal, or everyone else's?" Ron, smirking, leaned away from Harry's 'light' punch. "Nah, it's probably about the pearl."

"About that." Harry paused both his sentence and his steps. "When you say it's the one in the gallery, do you mean…"

"'The Girl with a Pearl Earring'?" Ron sighed, also stopping to glance at his partner. "Yeah, that's the one. Let's hope the lead's a dud."

"Christ, talk about déjà vu." Harry groaned, continuing to walk down the hall. "Don't know why they weren't all destroyed ages ago…never tell Hermione I said that, she'd start in about historical artefacts. Okay though, if the pearl's missing we can go back to the last case. Call in Malfoy, Borgin—wait, no. He just died, didn't he?"

"Probable accident. I think Susan looked into it." Ron nodded to himself. "One of his 'purchases' backfired, a cursed copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard. Meh, I guess it was only a matter of time before his business dealings caught up to him and…oh. Here we are. Fantastic. After you, mate. Screaming at you calms Robards down like nothing else."

"Thanks." Harry said with an annoyed tinge, thoughts of the reappearance of a certain book pushed to the back of his mind. Taking a breath he opened the door. "Sir? You called?"

"That's one way to put it." Ron muttered, which the others either ignored or didn't hear as the men slid into the office, fidgeting under the Head Auror's unyielding stare. Sitting behind his desk with his hands clenched in front of him, white knuckles were just visible.

"Close the door and sit. Now. You're not in here because of the Yard, the murders, the new pearl business, or the protections." Robards stated gruffly. Only when the two men had nervously sat did he continue speaking, his slow, reverberating tone only adding to the tension. "You're both reckless, defiant Gryffindors with only a passing concern for the law. I must've been mad to make you partners!"

"Yes sir." Said partners hopes of getting out of headquarters soon and sans-lectures sunk.

"I've lost count of the number of infractions you two've been called up on, only to have them be dismissed seeing as they allowed you to bloody well save all our hides!" Robards said, flinging his hands up in annoyance, though his harsh demeanour fell away. "Can't help but play the damn heroes, even when every villain and their dragon comes calling. _Unbelievable._"

Ron and Harry hid their small smiles, not allowing themselves to speak. Robards stared at them for a beat longer before sighing.

"Deputy Head Auror Flint resigned two days ago, but his unexpected exit from the force is being kept quiet until we have his replacement. Which is where you two come in." Robards sent the surprised men a steely look. "You've both been headaches from the moment you walked through those doors. Not only have you brought in mounds of scrutiny from the press, but you've broken every damn regulation in the book. Still, all of this can't take away from your interdepartmental popularity, extensive networks, unprecedented number of arrests, and a stunning amount of successfully solved cases. Boys, you are both tremendous assets to the department and I couldn't be prouder of your achievements."

"Thank you, sir."

"Thank, thank you." Harry and Ron stated, exchanging a bewildered glance.

"When we met to discuss Flint's replacement, the Minister and myself were in agreement on the top two names. Interestingly, Weasley, your wife was the only one to abstain from voting—hah, that woman is brilliant at deflecting charges of favouritism! Oh no, don't you two start. I know _exactly_ who's been tipping you off as to how to get around regulation, 'plausible deniability' my arse." Though Robards looked more amused than anything as he broke into a grin. "But principles or not, she was utterly beaming when we decided it would come down to you two. Though it's been left to my discretion to make the final decision, I want to extend my full congratulations to the department's top field agents and senior aurors.

"However, there's only one position to be filled, and I have made my decision." Robards continued, his smile falling into seriousness even while a hint of apology appeared. "Auror Weasley, you are a tremendous credit to your field, have a strategic mind that can't be beat, and whatever infractions you've accumulated have generally not even been your direct fault. This latest update on the 'pearl' and your leads on the ongoing serial murders have only further showcased your immense talents. Now, Auror Potter, you are obviously a special case. But like your partner's war-hero status, I've tried to base my final decision on your performance within the department rather than on previous accomplishments—however extensive they may be. Thus, aside from or despite being a 'saviour', you are an outstanding auror, one who would make the sacrifice play for his team; a man who would lay down on a wire and let the other guy crawl over you. But I have my doubts on how this attitude would transition to the Deputy Head Auror office. A further, extreme concern, is that you are at fault for most of Weasley's aforementioned infractions. Your own 'toeing' and outright shattering of the law is an extremely lengthy list which finishes _spectacularly_ with the latest Yard fiasco, a situation that got you extremely close to being discharged if not sent away for treason—"

"Sir?" Ron suddenly interrupted. Harry, also taken off-guard, noticed a tell-tale red flush around his friend's ears as he sat up straight in his seat. "That 'fiasco' allowed us to connect the Dancing Men murders with numerous muggle cases. With all due respect, whenever Auror Potter broke protocol it was to save lives! _He's the reason we have such a high success rate, and why Death Eaters aren't running around in the streets!_ No Harry, you git, shut it. If you won't defend yourself I bloody well will!" He abruptly stood up, poised with anger as he headed to the door away from his startled comrades. "Head Robards, thank you for your kind comments, but I'm happy continuing on as a senior auror. Harry was born for this job! He's been saving the world for years, and it's ridiculous there's even a question that he'd be fantastic in this position! Are you blind? He'd find a way _to cut the wire!_"

The door slammed behind the furiously frustrated redhead.

Harry blinked, feeling as though he'd been caught in and spat out of a tornado. "I, err…this actually demonstrates Auror Weasley's…leadership skills…showing why he'd be brilliant for—"

"Save it, Potter." Robards gave a short chuckle, shaking his head. "But don't worry, I know how to differentiate loyalty from subordination. Weasley was absolutely correct and, if he had let me finish, I would have said exactly the same thing. Congratulations, Auror Potter. I would tell you that the Deputy position is yours if you choose, but I'm afraid you're getting no choice in the matter." The Head shook the shocked auror's hand with a gruff nod. "Merlin knows Kingsley would've had my head if the paperwork hadn't been sent up straight away."

"…but, what…"

"Congratulations Harry." The older wizard broke into a grin as he patted his back. "I can't imagine anyone better for the job, and I know you'll make the force and Ministry proud."

"…thank you, but…but…"

"We'll make the announcement tomorrow." Robards waved away his stumbled protest. "There's some forms to sign and details to go over, of course, but that can be taken care of once we know the pearl's safe. Now…judging from the low cursing of my incompetence, I'd guess Auror Weasley is waiting for you just outside the door."

It was thus a very bewildered wizarding saviour who stepped out of the office, was immediately tugged away by his irritated best mate, and was unceremoniously dragged down to the Atrium in a whirl of angry ranting.

"_The nerve of that prat!_" Ron shouted as they made their way out of the elevator and into the sunlight, causing a small gnome sitting on the Fountain of Magical Brethren to fall into the water with a splash. "Acting all high and mighty! You know that hypocritical wanker once broke into Buckingham on a dare to get the Queen's knickers? At least you went to the Yard for a good cause! Sure you're an irritating git, but what the hell was he thinking!"

"Ron, Robards really wasn't that bad, and his criticisms were corr—"

"That's even forgetting his 'disregarding you're _you_' stupidity!" Ron ignored him to continue his indignant squawks. There was a slight pause as they apparated into London's muggle centre, but the ranting continued therein without pause. "Personal merit, huh? Disregarding your accomplishments because they're _too big_?!"

"That's not what he was doing—"

"Not that it's not nice to be considered," he admitted, as though reluctant to state that Robards was correct about anything, "but to give me it over you? _Harry Freaking Potter?!_ He's gone senile!"

"_Ron, I got the blasted job!_" Harry finally proclaimed, exasperated though touched at his best mate's protests on his behalf. The two, meanwhile, were crossing Trafalgar Square at a quick pace. Taking a cursory look around, his gaze passed over the crowds of tourists clicking away at Nelson's Monument in the bright sunlight, and at the squealing kids cheerfully trying to pull them and their parents into the wide fountain.

"Duh!" The redhead rolled his eyes at both the statement's obviousness and his friend's slowness. "Of course you did. I mean, congratulations and all, but it's more of 'About time' than 'Surprise!'"

"What?" Harry halted to peer at him incredulously.

Ron shook his head, finally bemused at the situation. "Did you miss how close the force came to rioting when Flint got deputy? Blimey, maybe you _are_ too stupid to be in charge after all."

"Hilarious. But I thought the protests were because of his family?"

"That," he shrugged, "and because everyone knew the ruddy position belonged to you. Don't ask me how in Merlin's name Flint got it in the first place."

But before Harry could answer he noticed a flying cart and rapidly jumped to the side to avoid an overzealous vendor. Ron wasn't as lucky and managed to be spectacularly tripped to the ground. "OI!"

"Sorry 'bout that." The goateed man didn't look apologetic in the least, though he did push his cart to the side to try and help the annoyed Ron up. "Take it as a sign: hot dogs for a fiver! In case of a concussion I'll make yours four quid. Great deal, eh? Come on mate!"

"Git." Ron groaned, shoving the vendor's hand off his arm and jumping back to his feet with a scowl. With a discreet wave of his wand and a mumbled hex as he refound his balance, the stranger was distracted when all the lights and music on his cart began to whir with a frenzy. Harry had a moment of surprise that the magic hadn't simply broken the electronics, but quickly fell back to his snickering as his annoyed friend pulled them towards the giant steps. Ron sent his amused countenance a glare as the vendor's cursing fell to the distance. "What's so funny?"

'You," Harry snorted, flicking his gaze upward at the National Portrait Gallery as they began climbing, "and your cartwheeling somersault back there. Course, using magic was completely irresponsible, but I hope one of the tourists got all of that on film. Think of the blackmail material!"

"Thanks, you prat." Ron gritted out, rubbing the back of his head, stubbornly refusing the look back at the skyline view as they reached the top of the steps. "Oh…hell. Wait. _You're_ going to be my boss? _You?_"

"Any video should be online in a matter of minutes." Harry continued on with a smirk, having judged by his friend's irritated state that the fall hadn't done him any harm. They pushed open the gallery's wide doors as both idly wondered how the Auror Force could survive a troublemaking mini-Marauder as a main official. "Hermione will be able to find it soon enough, especially if it goes viral and—"

"Do you want to know about the clue or keep taking the mick?" Ron scowled, because though a few of the terms went over his head it wasn't difficult to figure out the gist. Ignoring Harry's laughing expression, the redhead pressed on. "Hermione narrowed down the possible pearls, but it was still a gigantic list which would take ages to check on. It was an anonymous owler who tipped us off to this."

"Anonymous?" Harry's amusement vanished as his suspicion rushed back.

"It's a lead, take what you can get." Ron said idly, nodding to another auror on guard duty. "Besides, it's you who's so convinced the pearl's linked with the murders. Don't give me that look! I'm ruddy well right, aren't I? Insane theories or no, I've learned to trust your gut."

"I'm…not sure if I should be insulted." Harry stared at him for a few moments, blinking. "But whatever, the pearl isn't a long-shot. The meeting Hermione saw proved as much. Also, I had an—interesting—conversation with Sherlock Holmes."

"Which ended in a fight?" Ron raised his hands at his partner's glare. "Kidding, kidding. What did the genius say?"

"He has pretty sound evidence about who's the leak." Harry frowned, his brow crinkling. "Problem is, it's likely one of the main criminals and he's infiltrated internal Yard. This is a mole who's been in place for years and is working for Moriarty, this muggle crime lord who, apparently, isn't dead. Sherlock doesn't want to risk bringing it in before he has a bullet-proof case."

"Because of the whole 'Fall' thing?" Ron made quotes in the air. Harry suddenly remembered who'd been assigned the case to work with Mycroft, that is, before it was thrown out due to a lack of wizarding involvement. "Especially with Moriarty? Merlin, can't believe that bloke's back. Can't blame Holmes though. Imagine having all your comrades and the British media turn against you? Though, course, I'm talking to Mr. Ex-Undesirable Number One here!"

"…"

"Then with the 'ultimate sacrifice' and pretending to be dead stuff?" Ron threw a glance at his annoyed friend. "Which reminds me: if you ever do that again we'll resurrect you, prank you within an inch of your afterlife, and lock your inferi self in with the angrily deafening lectures of mum, Hermione, and Ginny."

"It was a decade ago!" Harry gritted out as they rounded the corner to the special exhibits.

"So cheers for _only_ giving us heart attacks once!" Ron paused contemplatively. "Actually, no, you've been scaring years off of me and Hermione since we met. When a friendship starts with a troll you know you're in trouble."

"Your point?" The Boy Who Lived pushed his glasses up to rub his nose tiredly.

"Just theorising about how you have a death wish and how you and Sherlock Holmes are identical." He replied cheerfully as they neared the room in question. "Which would explain why you're both too busy analysing each other's heroic insanity to work together. On that note, what about this mole?"

Harry sighed, but decided it wasn't worth it to argue with his stubborn best mate. Especially when he had a sinking feeling that the git was at least partly correct, and when they had just entered the place in question. "Honestly? I think Sherlock is onto something and I'd like to help him. I'll look into it when we're back on base, but first this dratted pearl." He glanced around the mainly empty room before flipping out his wallet to flash a card inside and raising his voice to address the strangers. "_Hello everyone_! This viewing area will be closed for the time being for a routine health and safety inspection. There is no need to be alarmed and you are free to go to any other part of the gallery. We apologise for any inconvenience and promise the room will be reopened shortly. Thank you for your cooperation; please make your way to the closest exit."

The two aurors watched as the handfuls of people trailed out with only minor grumblings. Soon enough the area was clear, and while Harry stood guard Ron, after double-checking to ensure there were no lingering watchers, flicked a few spells at the painting. Within moments he let out a curse. "Damn it, the pearl's gone. Only paint's here; the tip was right. Should we check the cameras?"

Harry similarly stated a few choice words with a scowl, moving towards him from the door to inspect the canvas. "We don't know when it was taken. Though, we can see if the guards noticed anything."

"Right. Fine." Ron groaned, frustrated as even more spells came back negative. "The recording charms ought to have picked up something. We'll bring it back to headquarters, call up everyone who had shifts here and—"

"Excuse me?" The two men, startled, turned at the soft voice behind them. In seeing a willowy brunette lugging a painting cart behind her, both wizards silently kicked themselves for being lax and forgetting privacy spells. "Are you with the gallery? You aren't supposed to touch the art."

"We're with…restoration." Ron flipped out his own blank card with only a moment's hesitation, shrugging at his partner as he handed it to the curious woman. She stared at the clear sheet as her testy expression grew blank and then grudgingly accepting, magically seeing whatever qualifications she expected to find.

"They could've given me warning." She muttered to herself, thrusting the card back at Ron before sighing. "How long will it be gone?"

"Not too—"

"Just a moment." Harry interrupted Ron, looking at the woman's paints with a sudden realisation. "Have you been sketching this portrait? Do you mind me asking how long?"

"I have permission!" She said rapidly, shielding the canvas with her body as though they were trying to steal it away. "I've been coming here for weeks and no one's had a problem with it!"

"We aren't here to stop you." Ron quickly answered, catching onto Harry's train of thought. "It's only we're, we're…curious about some damage on the painting and want to know if you saw anything, Miss…"

"Mary. Mary Morstan." 'Mary' narrowed her eyes. "You can check the records, my name's on file with the gallery! I'd never damage masterpieces!"

"We don't think you would." Harry said smoothly. "We're only wondering if you've seen anything unusual here lately. Trouble-making teens, odd people hanging about, or strange objects. Anything that might've struck you."

Mary gazed at them for a beat. Her frown lightened. "No, nothing. But you aren't really from restoration."

"What's wrong with being thorough?" Harry gave her a guarded smile before returning to undoing the sticking charms around the portrait, careful to hide everything from the woman's view.

Meanwhile Ron, after a few more questions to the highly suspicious though amused Mary, promised her that the painting would be back after an hour or so. She became more relaxed after a few of his horrible jokes, and soon enough became convinced that—whatever they were doing—they weren't art thieves. With this she at last released her death-hold on the heavy cart, and rapidly somehow shanghaied the two aurors into watching over her paints and canvases while she went to the cafe.

Neither wizard was quite certain how this had occurred. Though both were thrown by the situation and Mary's stubborn insistence that, "If I'm going to be waiting around twiddling my thumbs for an hour, I won't be going hungry. I'm damned tired of lugging that thing through London, and if you lot don't watch it I'll go straight to security about your little prank!" Needless to say, both men felt sticking around for a few minutes to appease the crazy woman would be the least tiring option—particularly since dismantling all the security spells holding the portrait in place was taking some time.

Minutes later Mary was waltzing away, sans-cart but with a wedding ring as collateral.

Harry paused in his work to send a bemused look at his stunned partner. "Funny, I've never seen someone actually resemble a deer caught in headlights."

Ron was too busy staring forlornly at his newly ringless-finger to comprehend the comment. "I—how'd that happen? She just—she—Harry! _Harry! Hermione's going to kill me!_"

"So…don't tell her." He answered slowly, raising an eyebrow with held-back amusement.

"She'll find out! It's _her!_" Ron glanced back up, petrified. "She's practically omniscient, mate. Not to mention she's scary enough normally, and now with her crazy hormones? She's going to murder me! Mum'll help! That lady just stole my ring! _I'm never going to meet the Blob!_"

"You call me melodramatic?" Harry rolled his eyes, at last gently shifting the painting down to the floor. "She didn't steal it, and it's not a big deal. Hermione won't find out, you can borrow my cloak if she does, and why do you have to call your unborn kids 'blobs' again?"

"It's confusing without a gender!" Ron cried out, still frantic but a little less so in learning that the invisibility cloak would be on his side. "Better than 'munchkids', at any rate."

"Munch_kins_." Harry corrected, spotting Mary coming back down the hall with a sandwich and coffee in hand. "Only Ginny calls them that. It's from 'The Wizard of Oz' and…you don't know what that is, do you. Look, just ask Herm—"

In the next instant, the room was alight with spells and Mary's screams.

* * *

**A/N:** Yes, Ron can be a good friend. Yes, aurors have psychic papers. Yes, I'm introducing Mary Morstan. No, this isn't necessarily a John/Mary fic (but I've had a slowly evolving ship in mind from the start). If you don't know what in Merlin's name I'm talking about, review the brilliant series of "Doctor Who" and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's classic Sherlock Holmes.

This chapter is the quiet before the storm. If you like _any_ of the Sherlock or Harry Potter heroes, I am so, so sorry for what's to come. Because every story needs an old-fashioned villain and we're long overdue for a Fall. Forget about whomping, hurt/comfort, or a tragic 'twelve trials': this will be the destruction of a hero as London crumbles around him.

Guess who?


	13. The Second War Begins

**A/N:** It's never a good sign when the writer wants to put in an 'apology disclaimer' that would put the Tenth Doctor to shame.

**General Disclaimer:** I would never be able to end a story with 'All Was Well'.

* * *

**15:07, London's National Portrait Gallery**

Looking back over the years, Harry would have given anything for a straightforward adventure. All he asked for was a single duel between wizards of equal match. For just once (seriously, _one_ was all he asked for!) he would love for it not to be boy vs. basilisk, boy vs. a hundred dementors, or even a group of schoolchildren vs. hungry blast-ended skrewts. This was even without mentioning the insanity of facing an unprepared kid against Lord Voldemort time and again. Thank Merlin for sheer dumb luck and technicalities, that's all he had to say.

So as Harry barrelled forward into the fray of spells, grabbed the stunned woman, felt her piercing-hot coffee split open and drench his shirt, and threw them into the middle of a circle of couches, he didn't think of spells, curses, or fears—instead, it was, 'Of _course_ it'd be an invisible enemy. About time…' Because he wasn't unduly surprised that they were being fired upon. Concerned? Yes. Shocked? Hah, yeah right. It wouldn't be the first time criminals had returned to 'take out' a possible witness.

But not being distracted by these thoughts, he quickly leapt partly up to fire back spells. Mary, either recovering from shock or deciding to imitate him, jerked her head up and out of the light of safety; Harry cursed and forced her back down.

Seeing that Ron had also taken cover and was shooting from behind the corner leading to the exit, Harry twisted his concentration in two directions. The most important thing was to determine where the hell the spells were coming from. It wasn't from ground level, so disillusionment charms or invisibility cloaks were unlikely. In fact, they all seemed to come from the ceiling—ventilation vents? No…the cameras! It shouldn't be possible, but the lights were clearly originating there: "RON! THE SECURITY CAMERAS!"

With the aurors now aiming at the cameras, Mary huddled in relative safety, and no back-ups becoming apparent, Harry focused on the second issue. If Mary was the target, the timing was extremely strange. Why wait to get her until now? Why wait until days or weeks after the heist, and why fire on her only when she'd _reentered the scene of the crime?_ Why here?

A sudden blast caught his attention, distracting him enough that a shallow cutting charm hit the side of his arm. Without time to do a healing charm he huddled his arm close to his chest, quickly though fumblingly returning to casting at the blasted cameras. With Mary's new shrieks at the sight of blood as background, he internally cursed as waves of fire destroyed what had once been a painted masterpiece—and the main evidence of the crime.

Oh.

At least he now knew why the criminals were firing on this room in particular. Maybe they'd been watching them, knew Ron and he'd bring the portrait to headquarters to analyse it…but, they were clearly professional. They wouldn't have left traces of the crime. So why the hell were they drawing attention to this?

"Harry! GET OUT OF THERE!"

Ron's alarmed shout shook his thoughts abruptly away from this. It was when he took his eyes away from the cameras they had yet to destroy that he noticed the flames from _incendio_ weren't stopping. Instead, new fires were bursting into existence through the room as the smell of crackling canvases met his nose.

The attackers were surrounding them with flames.

In a burst of motion Harry put a shield charm around Mary and himself, casting away offensive curses for the moment. Without wasting anymore time he vaulted them towards the entranceway where Ron was still firing—half-carrying and half-dragging the terrified muggle woman along. He dimly noticed her small cries concerning the enflamed paintings and her own lost art, but was far more focussed on keeping them both alive.

"The painting's lost." He huffed as he pulled Mary between himself and Ron. Glancing down the hallway, his heart sank at the sight of a continued myriad of coloured, bursting lights. The only silver lining was there were no new flames to be seen. With this, it was obvious they had to get away from the smoke and burning heat. "We need to get to security! Shut down the cameras, see what's causing this."

"Where the hell's back-up?" Ron puffed, though like Harry switched from offensive spells to a shield charm. As the three of them hurtled down the hall away from the smoke, Mary realising enough of the situation to cooperate and stay in a stunned silence.

Though they were able to avoid many of the fired spells, the two wizards had to periodically slow down to reapply the shields. But as they reached the main entranceway the spells abruptly stopped altogether. Ron and Harry exchanged an uncertain glance, wands at the ready, dimly noting the overhead piercing shriek of the fire alarm.

The key problem hit Ron in the moment of calm. "Where's _anybody_?"

"Evacuated, hopefully." Harry hesitated, glancing around the grand corridor, trying to catch his breath and wrapping up his injured arm (noticing with relief that the wound, while bloody and magically, stubbornly staying open, wasn't deep). "Security's…left? The alarm's still going."

"Right. Security room then." Ron started racing away before a stiff hold on his coat stopped him.

"We passed it three doorways ago!" Mary cried in a furiously petrified voice, letting go of the surprised auror. "Do you notice _nothing_? There was a sign and everything and—_and what the bloody hell is going onNNN!_"

"Sorry!" Harry yelled back apologetically, but didn't stop pulling the woman with his one good arm. Ron burst through the aforementioned doorway, only to spot…

"Nothing." Mary took a step forward, before the aurors simultaneously pushed her back. "Nobody. What the—"

"_Homenum revelio."_ Ron paused after the spell before grimly shaking his head. "Yep, deserted. The spells must've stopped when they scampered. Nobody's here."

"But _something_ might be." Harry peered at a large cart partly hidden by a swivelling chair in front of the numerous security cameras. "Left in a hurry, left this behind…oh, bloody hell." The memory hit him like a charging hippogriff in spotting the sign for hot dogs on the side. "The freaking vendor!"

"That git?" Ron raced forward to inspect the cart, casting a few spells to rip the top off. "Harry, there's everything here! This will take forever to search through; it's bigger on the inside."

Mary stifled an hysteric snort, standing close to Harry as he cautiously approached the cameras.

"Merlin, my hex must've slowed them down." Ron looked slightly cheered at this fact, his arms bundled deep into the cart. "Lots of technology here. Funny though, magic should've messed it up. But it's attached to the blasted cameras—must be how the spells were fired. Not that it makes sense but…"

"Sounds like Mycroft Holmes' research." Harry frowned as he peered from one monitor to the next. The room that formerly held 'The Girl With The Pearl Earring' was in ashes; the rest of the gallery seemed untouched but deserted. With a switch and a few spells, he switched off the fire alarm in seeing that the flames had stopped. He checked around for any notes from security. No, nothing. "Don't know how far he's gotten. You know goblins, very hush hush. Holmes is almost worse. Though this sounds right up his alley; magic being merely energy and the like."

"Never did understand that." Ron grumbled to himself as Harry rechecked the monitors. "Hermione's rambled on it enough: 'conversion', 'blue jeans' and the like."

"I think you mean 'genes'."

"_Magic?!_" Mary squeaked, attracting the wizards' sheepish attentions. With nerves already at the breaking point (with the destruction of art and coming close to being killed, either/or), the woman was understandably faint and clutching for an explanation. "No—course not, being ridiculous. Totally insane. Yes. Right. There's some hidden cameras, hmm? BBC think it'd be a laugh to make an artist think a gallery was destroyed? Hahah, very funny." She turned her gaze away from the men up to the ceiling. "Hilarious, you got me! Time to come out! _If you actually ruined my painting I'll destroy you!_"

"Err, Harry?" Ron looked cautiously at the raving woman.

"Muggle telly, don't worry about it." Harry sighed, switching the monitors to the stream of Trafalgar Square. His eyes widened in surprise and fury. Ignoring his injury he pulled his mobile out and started yelling into it, not noticing Ron's jerk of surprise at the volume. "ROBARDS! Send _everyone_ to—Hermione? FINE, HERMIONE, WHOEVER! Send _everyone_ to Trafalgar NOW! Hitwizards, aurors, EVERYONE! Countless muggles are down, they're being slaughtered; Ron and I are trapped in the Portrait Gallery, security feeds show that the doors are blocked. We can't get through. _Hell, send everyone now!_"

Ron, abandoning the cart, joined Harry in staring at the screen in shock. The live stream of Trafalgar Square was an escalating slaughter of nightmare fuel. Piles of men and women now surrounded Nelson's Monument, children and parents were dying the fountain's water crimson, and the spells and mute screaming continued as they watched. Both aurors instantly knew where their back-up was (scattered in pieces across the ground, fighting wand and punch against the attackers, flinging the survivors behind flimsy blockades) and, with horrified realisation, saw that the great swarm of attackers was concentrated in front of the doors of the National Portrait Gallery.

They had to get out to help, but were trapped.

"The windows? Break the walls?" Ron said uncertainly, voice shaking as they watched the ensuing horror. "We'd never make it out the front entrance."

"Maybe." Harry bit his lip, not saying the obvious fact that the attackers (on foot and broom) had the entire place well covered. "A back entrance?"

"We'd be too late." Ron said a few choice words, looking at the scene helplessly. "I—Merlin. Where the hell are the forces?! They're getting killed!"

"Hermione's taking her sweet time." Harry likewise cursed.

"It's not real." Both jumped at Mary's soft voice, spinning around guiltily in noticing that she was likewise watching the feed with horrified eyes. "Like some stupid American reality show. What's with BBC and heightened violence? Who's entertained by seeing this?!"

"Mary," Harry said softly, putting his hand on her shaking shoulder, "I'm sorry, I know it must be impossible to believe, but this _is_ real. You aren't on a TV show. There aren't any hidden cameras."

She shrugged off his hold in irritation, backing away from them and the monitors. "Very funny! Christ, who enjoys watching someone be scared out of their mind? How the hell did you get that fake injury so quickly?! And—and the smell of smoke? _How many actors did you hire for this!?_"

Harry looked at her sadly, unsure what to do. Ron, confused about what Mary was rambling on about, switched back to the monitor while mumbling under his breath about different escape routes.

"_I KNOW YOU'RE WATCHING ME!_" Mary suddenly shrieked, spinning around in a frenzy. "Joke's over! I'll sue if you don't reveal yourself, you see if I don't. What, a two-way mirror of my anger? FINE! I'LL GIVE YOU A BLOODY SHOW!" Racing over to the blank TV, she flipped it on with an angry flourish. Opening her mouth for a furious diatribe, her words died on her lips.

Harry, following her gaze, similarly felt his breath hitch in terror at the muted screen and CNN headline.

* * *

**14:57, 221B Baker Street**

Mycroft tapped his umbrella. John stared.

Anthea typed away on her phone in the corner, sending pointed glances between the doctor and the Holmes brothers every few moments. John, however, did nothing; too stunned by even this partial display of emotion to begin to work out what she was implying.

Mycroft continued tapping his umbrella. Sherlock sat hunched on the sofa, fingertips to his temple, muttering under his breath. John stared some more and sipped his tea.

Anthea, growing tired of the male stupidity, decided to do something about it. "Ah hem."

Silence.

"_Hem hem!_" She coughed louder, looking up from her phone to glare. "Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson, if you please."

"What?" Mycroft rhetorically asked, his tone impatient. "If my brother is going to be so stubborn as to refuse to acknowledge my presence, there is little that I can—"

"_Quiet!_" Sherlock snapped, concentration broken. "I was and am attempting to work! _In peace and quiet!_"

"On what exactly?" Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Last time I checked, you did not have any cases. That is, because not even you would be foolish enough to continue with the 'Dancing Men' serial murders when I repeatedly emphasised how dangerous it was!"

John fidgeted with his tea cup, glancing away as the Holmes tried to exceed each other's glares. Anthea returned to her phone, satisfied. Mycroft, however, was nowhere near finished. "I should also be relieved that this 'work' of yours has nothing to do with the Potters—a family I have _constantly_ warned you to stay away from!"

"Then you shouldn't have recommended they move into Baker Street!" Sherlock gave a small smirk at seeing his brother draw up short. Anthea paused in her typing, face growing pale. John froze at this apparently correct information (what were they talking about?), but the pause was rapidly broken.

"I did not expect you to make a habit of breaking into their flat." Mycroft impatiently tapped his umbrella, not apologetic in the least. "I must say, I am surprised to find you in-tact after the last altercation."

'Ah,' John thought to himself, 'so _that's_ the reason for their visit and…wait…does the bastard actually have CCTV installed in here?!'

But Sherlock wasn't nearly as thrown. On the contrary, he stared at his brother cooly. "We are on perfectly cordial terms with the Potters. John and Ginny gossip, we've babysat their youngest son, and Harry and I talk—business." John swore he heard Anthea snort at the word 'babysat', and he was a moment from protesting his 'gossiping' (they only enjoyed having tea, chatting, and complaining about their sometimes-insufferable partners; 'partner', for him, being his roommate. Yes. Not that there was anything wrong with _that_, but it wasn't him) when he properly caught sight of Mycroft's expression.

"Do you mean to tell me," the older Holmes said slowly, as though hardly believing himself, "that you and _Harry Potter_ have discussed police cases?"

Sherlock scornfully raised an eyebrow. "It's a pleasant change to converse with someone competent." He sighed when John opened his mouth in annoyance. "Another _detective_, that is. Do calm down, John."

"Why you cannot simply let the Yard and I handle this, lord knows." Mycroft muttered before returning to angrily glare at Sherlock. "You arrogant fool! You haven't the faintest idea of this situation's magnitude."

"The Yard's been compromised by Moriarty's mole." Sherlock waved it away. John duly noted that Anthea again paused in her background typing, likely from shock. "Who else ought I to trust and talk to?"

"_Not everything has to do with Moriarty!_" Mycroft insisted, actually raising his voice.

"_HE'S ALIVE!_" Sherlock stood from his seat, anger flaring up as his eyes blazed and fingers rolled into fists.

"I never claimed otherwise!" Mycroft exclaimed before, with a sigh, forced a sense of calm in the face of Sherlock's outrage. "Sherly, whether or not Moriarty is behind this is beside the point. The Potters are involved. I thus suggest you take a vacation to the continent until this mess blows over."

"Why exactly?" Sherlock remained standing, his annoyance intensifying every word.

"Because Harry Potter is the most dangerous man you will ever meet." Mycroft, anger extinguished to tiredness, raised a hand to hold off Sherlock's ensuing questions. "Do not misunderstand me. Yes, Mr. Potter has killed before, but only criminals or terrorists in self-defence. Why I strongly suggest you leave him alone is because the people around him have the rather annoying tendency of turning up dead."

"Come again?" John at last spoke up, certain he'd misheard. Anthea sighed from her corner, returning to her mobile, acting as though this was old news.

"The man has a target on his back the size of Belgium." Mycroft continued drily, though his underlying concern was clear. "His blood relatives, school friends, co-workers—gone. Sometimes without a trace, sometimes as a body that will turn up in the Thames. It's a wonder his family's remained relatively in-tact, though that's more due to his paranoia than anything else."

Sherlock's gaze turned inquisitive. "If he's so infamous, why haven't I heard of him?"

"There is an emphasis on 'paranoia'." His brother said, impatience growing. "Mr. Potter would prefer if no one had ever heard of him; enemies and the general public alike. His—people—are skilled at hiding their tracks. All you would have on him is whispers, and that is only if you are extremely lucky and self-destructive."

"Sir." Anthea chimed with a hint of urgency, eyes sparking with something John couldn't recognise.

"Whispers." Sherlock muttered to himself, turning his attention away from the conversation. "Irene Adler…"

For once Mycroft looked at a loss, though he covered it within moments. But John was able to follow this train of thought and, like his friend, wondered why The Woman's elite clients held Harry Potter in such 'esteem'. Christ, had they been rooming with James Bond without knowing it?

"Sir!" Anthea repeated more urgently, a tone of fear entering her voice.

"Whatever this is," Mycroft interrupted both his assistant and John's contemplations, and the latter was startled to hear fright likewise alight in the other man's tone, "Sherly, for once in your life, _listen_. If not for me, for mummy. For Lestrade, Hudson, Watson—stop being a fool and recognise you have people to lose. For god's sake, _stay away from this case!_"

"SIR!" Anthea swept forward, swabbed away the umbrella from her path, thrust the phone at her startled boss, and turned tail to rush out of the flat as though an oncoming storm was chasing her high heels.

Mycroft quickly raised the mobile, scanned the lines of text, and dropped his umbrella in shock. "_Sherlock!_" He shouted, racing to the door after his assistant. "Tell Lestrade it's Downing Street, not the Palace!"

John blinked as the two figures disappeared, door hanging open in their wake. Glancing down, he vaguely noted that Mycroft had left his umbrella. "Do you think we should…"

"_Quiet!_" Sherlock shouted, rummaging in his coat pockets from where it lay over the armchair. With a small cry of triumph, the detective plucked out and flung open his phone, typing away in a rush while pacing towards the door. John, rattled, quickly followed, leaving his cold tea where it lay. "Gah!"

"What do you think—"

"Lestrade's an idiot." Sherlock growled, hunched over his texting as they raced through the doorway and down the staircase. "If I tell him he's wrong, he ought to bloody well—"

"_STUPEFY! SERPENSORTIA!"_

"GET AWAY FROM—"

At the shouts, the two men stiffened before racing down the hall, past the Potters' flat, and towards the entranceway and both Ginny's and Anthea's shrill cries. They were feet from tumbling, fighting figures and blasting bursts of light when an unknown male voice rang out with a laugh.

Mrs. Hudson lay unmoving by the open door, Mycroft was blocking some falling pieces of ceiling from the woman with his umbrella, Anthea was shooting some of the rays of light out of a stick at the attacker, and Ginny shielded her baby while frantically trying to get to her other sons.

The next thing John knew, he was pouncing forward as the young boys fell with shrill cries. Managing to push a shocked Teddy away from the fighting, he failed to release an unknown wrist from circling around Jamie, but caught hold of the attacker to try and loosen his hold. Mycroft likewise lunged at the villain as Sherlock jumped to defend the incapacitated landlady from the collapsing debris.

As John struggled to hold the intruder back from the boy, there was a sharp twist in his stomach as Baker Street disappeared with a _Snap!_ He shouted out frantically as his body felt like it was being compressed and pulled through a too-small pipe, the colours and shapes of his 'normal' life spiralling away before him.

* * *

**15:07, motorway by Oxford Circus**

"Bloody traffic." Lestrade groaned in frustration, honking without thinking it would change a thing. Switching off the lights and alarm, he tapped the wheel impatiently, radio still on. "I'm stuck on Oxford, coming from a late lunch to the threat. No word from Donovan, but the tip on Buckingham was probably a hoax. Over for now." Shut off.

Drum on the steering wheel.

"Don't know why we can't take the Tube." Lestrade grumbled, peering out at the other cars. "'Right of way' doesn't make any dratted difference with gridlock! This is bloody ridiculous and…now I'm talking to myself. Fantastic. Where the hell is Donovan?"

The quiet buzzing of his mobile was, in his boredom, thus met with relief. Until he flipped it open to the text:

_'Palace is wrong! PM is target!—SH'_

"The hell?" Lestrade quietly muttered, answering back while sitting up straighter in his seat.

_'How do you even know about this? What's going on?—GL'_

His phone almost immediately buzzed again with a reply. Before he could read whatever harsh reply it contained, the Tube entrance next to his stationary car erupted into smoke and screams.

* * *

**14:57, outside 221 Baker Street**

_'I know your seeecccrrreeet!'_

Anderson sent off the text with a smirk, drumming his other fingers on the wheel. He glanced out at the sunny day.

"What're we waiting for?" His passenger growled from the backseat, nervous (as he always was) within a muggle vehicle.

"The boss." Anderson replied simply, sharing a wink with Donovan. Said wink was not returned; her face remained as blank as before. "Patience, Lestrange."

"What happened to 'no names'?" The dark wizard scowled, less amused than ever. "You filthy little squib!"

"Moran, then." Anderson rolled his eyes at the insult, not intimidated in the least. "How much did you piss off M to get _that_ moniker?"

"I'd shut your mouth!"

"Hmm, but idly chatting passes the time so nicely. Don't you think so, Sally?" The woman stared ahead, unmoving, in reply. Anderson shrugged as he again typed away. "She doesn't count."

_'Careful not to jump to concs! Or you'll be the next to Fall…'_ Sent with a click.

"It's right there!" Lestrange fidgeted impatiently, craning for the door. "It'd be so easy to attack and—"

"The boss hasn't said to move. You already messed with the timing and target in Trafalgar. Did mess up? Will mess up? Oh! Tenses are difficult, aren't they." Anderson drawled, flipping his head back with a grin. "The important bit? Don't pass go, no collecting 200 quid."

"The hell?"

"Muggle humour. Right Sally?" He moved his hand forward to nod her head. "Yes, exactly. So be a good boy and only play fetch when you're told."

"You worthless piece of—"

"Or do you not recall the last time you failed to follow orders?" Anderson's light words stopped Lestrange short. But the former was, by now, mainly amusing himself by pulling Donovan's frozen face in different, contorted expressions. "Nasty bit of business in France, and all over a misuse of time magic to have 'play time' with some hookers. Funny what a simple call to muggle authorities can do. Funnier still how even a wizard of your—capabilities—is useless against a squad of machine guns."

"Why you little—"

"Ah ah ah!" Anderson waved his phone, finally letting go of Donovan. "Remember: the boss likes me and we're on a schedule. You're only lucky enough he decided you were valuable enough to rescue. Don't lose sight of the goal. We need Potter to be hanging by a thread, break him down 'til there's nothing left. Reputation? Gone. Power? Vamoosh. Happiness? Destroyed. Family? Sayonara. Friends? Gone, gone, _gone_."

Another text: _'Jk! Not your Fall. Bc ur just the sad little secretary who wants to be a big bad reporter—Holmes saw right thru u. Ur being pulled along by a string. Watch out b4 ur 'exclusive' slips thru ur fingers!'_

"Don't see why I can't just attack the bastard. He and the weasels." Lestrange blustered, eyes furious at thoughts of the past. "No need for plots, more time, anything! Just _crucio_ them and watch them squeal. Simple enough."

"But what a waste of his magic." Anderson replied lightly, though the clenching of his fingers told another story altogether. "Also, why bother with the little fish?"

"What'd you even know about magic, you useless squib?" The wizard sneered.

"This and that." Anderson frowned, his irritation at last peaking through. If Lestrange had seen his expression he wouldn't have been able to suppress a shiver. "Enough to know anyone would give their arm, leg and heart for the Elder Wand. Enough to know that someone with the wand is unbeatable…unless you give them the right incentive. Or, unless they don't give a damn whether or not they're beaten."

Lestrange scoffed, not recognising the plot displayed in front of him. He leaned back in his seat, a bit amused. "Like the boss'd let a minion like you in on the plans. Don't you know your lot 'disappear' whenever your usefulness runs out?"

"Of course." Anderson said smoothly, beginning to type once again. "I hardly missed the vanishing of the group with the pearl. Luckily, you'll need my skills for quite a while longer."

"Eh. Sure." Lestrange gave a short bark of a growl; his version of laughter. "Whatever you say."

_'Anthea. Pretty name. Was that going to be ur penname for Witch Weekly? Shame u haven't gotten ur exclusive of boy wonder. Shame u never will. Still, do u want the story of a lifetime? Bc there once was a boy who constantly conquered death, but in one final duel between good and bad he might draw his final breath…'_

But there was still no answer. Anderson frowned as he stared at the bundle of bait. He considered it a shame she wasn't begging—it had such potential for amusement. Thankfully, getting her was by no means necessary. Right then, to heighten the prize. "Moran? It's time. Grab the boy and get Mycroft Holmes' mobile. No lethal spells, and be careful with the necklace or it won't be me who'll be dredged up from the Thames."

With Lestrange bursting out the door eager for action, he hadn't even time for a last insult. Anderson sniggered to himself, sending off the final text as he glimpsed Mrs. Hudson answering the knock before falling in the now-open doorway. _'The Queen's fine. PM? Not so much. London's gonna burn…along w/ur hero. RUN!'_

"Such a 'moron'. Too stupid to recognise an offence when he hears it. Wizards! Not an ounce of logic among the lot. Now then, Sally…" Anderson adjusted the car's mirror before tilting his head sideways, pretending as though she could answer, "…how d'ya think I'd look in a crown?" He paused before his amusement heightened. "No, you're right. Too grandstanding. Much prefer the shadows, hmm? Maybe I'm overdue for a different face altogether. Enough of the old-fashioned villain act; it's time to 'play for the side of the angels'. Let's steal us a hero!"

Just then a series of screams erupted from 221 Baker Street. Anderson didn't take notice of this and, instead, nonchalantly glanced down at an urgent text from DI Lestrade. He snorted, typing on his phone until a florescent button appeared on the screen. "Palace, here we come." He began to drive down the street. "Donovan? Command: act like your normal self, ignore any irregularities concerning myself."

Donovan shook her head, blinking her eyes as though she'd just drifted off. "Christ, sorry about that." She stretched lightly, fingertips lingering on his shoulder.

"Don't worry about it." Anderson smiled at her kindly, tapping the bulls-eye plastered on his mobile before tucking it back into his pocket. Imagining the silent explosions in crystal clear clarity, his grin threatened to burst off his face. Donovan noticed neither. "Lestrade says there's an emergency at Buckingham Palace."

* * *

**15:17, Department of Magical Law Enforcement's main strategic room, the Ministry of Magic**

Hermione stared at the screen in front of her, not believing her eyes. "There's—"

"—nothing." Robards growled, tone frustrated at the sight of mounds of police and his aurors milling about the clueless tourists and evacuated museum-goers in Trafalgar Square. "Everyone was sent out for no bloody reason! Who the hell fired on Potter and Weasley?"

"We can't get security footage up of the gallery." Hermione bit her lip. She and Percy, the latter having arrived to help from the Department of International Magical Cooperation, exchanged a confused glance. "Guards at the scene said the fire alarms went off, so obviously something happened. But Harry and Ron are both okay and, whatever it was, it's gone now. I'll call the men back—"

'_BOOM!_'

All the other officials jumped up in high alert, only to see a breathless Junior Auror and a hastily slammed door.

"Telly—now—" the new officer stumbled back against the wall, hand pressed against his heart while he spluttered out the message, "—any channel—"

"I don't…" Percy said haltingly, putting back his hastily-drawn wand, "…is there even one of those in here?"

As the purebloods looked around in confusion and the Junior Auror caught his breath, Hermione sighed and took out her mobile. With a few key types, she was blinking down at the BBC headlines in horror. "I—dear lord. ROBARDS! We need everybody at the central Tube lines, especially Circle!" Thrusting the phone at the puzzled man, she flew over to the main command centre and began shouting directions at the personnel still in Trafalgar Square.

Robards, seeing the text, cursed and likewise began issuing rapid orders to the congregated officials. "Alerts have gone up around London, practically everywhere _but_ Trafalgar bleeding Square. It was a distraction! Main explosions are concentrated on the Tube's Circle Line: split the stations between you for command! Don't get in the Yard's way—let's only hope they've not dropped the blasted ball like us! This is a rescue operation, first and foremost, but contain any threat you find."

"Get all political areas evacuated now, particularly the Minister, PM, and royal family!" Hermione shouted out, not moving away from her perch. "The Yard got assorted alerts, but they seem to be like our Trafalgar 'warning'. Most officers are out in the wrong areas."

The personnel hesitated for a moment for more orders. Robards, heavily scowling, corrected this with a tense bark. "What're you waiting for? GO! NOW!"

The officials immediately scattered, some towards the floo, others pausing to shout into their communicators. In the midst of this chaos, Percy was distracted by his ringing two-way mirror. He snatched it up impatiently, already half-way out the door. "_I'm busy right—_"

"PERCE!" George's frantic face appeared on the other side, stopping his brother short. His ringing voice also made those nearby officials pause. "Hogsmeade's gone mad! We need aurors here _now_—"

George's expression was suddenly pushed away as Bill squeezed onto the screen. "_Bloody hell, WHERE IS EVERYONE?! Gringotts' a mess, the goblins are near rioting and…oh merlin. DIAGON ALLEY!_"

"Wait, Diagon too?" George's disbelieving expression suddenly went pale. "Angie, Fred! I've got to go!"

As George instantly left the screen, the oldest brother's demeanour turned paler and paler. "I, I thought it was just—damn it. It's getting cold."

"Bill, what are you talking about?" By now there was a group of officials surrounding Percy, all staring wide-eyed at the small screen.

"_It feels like dementors!_" With a last wide-eyed look off-screen, the oldest Weasley brother likewise clicked off.

"ADD MAGICAL CENTRES TO THE LIST!" Hermione cried out, rapidly typing and issuing commands to the agents in the field. "Focus on Hogsmeade, Diagon, and any in London's proximity! Split personnel between them and highly populated muggle areas. This is a rescue and evacuation mission! Where the hell are the alerts from MI5 and the Yard?!"

"Add in Heathrow!" The door to the central conference room, now hanging wide open due to the constant flow of people rushing in and out. "Though only the magical international gates for now."

"Reports of dementors in Diagon Alley." Robards flung out patronuses one after the other with hurried messages. "Immediate evacuations!"

"Central London too?" A Junior Auror asked hesitantly.

"Like that'd be possible!" Percy cried back while rushing about for papers, the room emptying of everyone but harangued messengers and the top officials wiring out instructions, the former rushing in and out with no array of order. "We'd have more injuries with an unorganised exodus. Focus on Westminster, the Ministry and the like!"

"Explosions are coming in from residential areas." Hermione muttered to herself, communicators held up to her ear as she desperately tried to organise the defence with Robards. "Mostly concentrated on the Tube but…oh hell! _Someone get to Baker Street!_"

"What?" Percy jerked up in start.

"Some sort of commotion! But not an explosion—"

"THERE'S NO EXPLOSIONS!" Another mirror on the table burst up in a panicked terror. "NONE! They're distractions, looks like a prank device that makes noise and smoke so no one notices until too late that—"

"DEMENTORS IN THE BLOODY TUBE!" A crowd of officials burst into the room, their voices intermingling like so many horrified Howlers:

"—no problems with the palace—"

"—DEMENTORS!"

"—10 Downing Street clear—"

"—get every person to the centre! Interns, secretaries, who cares! Where's St. Mungo's?!"

"—press is going mad, can hardly blame them—"

"—where the hell's Flint!?"

"—Portrait Gallery is on fire? The hell?"

"—kidnapping alert for—oh shit. Where's Potter?"

"—no dead yet, but the soulless are being taken to St. Mungo's. Healers split between there and on-sight emergencies. Same problem as us: not enough blasted people. Which aurors haven't called in?"

"—the 'pranks' took down magical security! _Dementors portkeyed into the Underground! That shouldn't be possible_—"

"—no prisoners are missing from Azkaban, just the beasts—"

"—Ministry's clear, we've checked everything. Shacklebolt's laying low—"

"—muggles are terrified about terrorist attacks—"

"—Salem won't stop ringing—"

"—seriously, where's Potter!? The kidnapping is—"

"—Paris' trying to send in reinforcements, but with the—"

"—apart from Hogsmeade, attacks are solely focussed on London—"

"—all muggle flights and public transport are grounded—"

"—international portkeys cut off. This will be a diplomatic nightmare before—"

"—no numbers yet of casualties, but the affected will be in the hundreds—"

"—Yard knows less than us. Surprise, surprise—"

"—muggle hospitals are already filling up with 'coma' patients. We're leaking it was a biochemical agent—"

"_Avada kedavra!_"

Before any could realise the attack, a green light had burst forth and spiralled across the room. As Gawain Robards fell to the floor, no one in the new eruption of screams and pandemonium noticed the invisible man disappear back out the door.

From the Ex-Head Auror's unscarred body and lingering expression of surprised fear, any muggle would have supposed he'd been scared to death.

* * *

**A/N: **As is hopefully becoming clear, the story's myriad threads are like interconnecting pieces of a bigger mystery (like so many little spiderwebs). Even though the major clues are now there, Moriarty still has his greatest hand to play. But still, _this_ is why I should never write my own books. I'd be just like George R.R. Martin, laughing while torturing characters left and right. Red Wedding? Hah! This chapter is only the start of the Fall. You lot ain't seen nothing yet.

With this, I'm guessing I'll be receiving some rather irritated messages from Londoners. Err, sorry? I love London, I do! I just have no self-control when it comes to writing tragedy. I especially hope my fantastically incredible beta spellmugwump97 (who is beyond amazing and supermegaawesome) doesn't hate me! You see, I kinda-sorta didn't send this chapter to her before I posted it. Mainly because I felt horrible about how long it was already taking me to get it online, and a teensy little bit because I'd just fictionally destroyed her city. Please forgive me? I have red vines!

But there are happier notes! Remember in chapter 10 when I said I'd write out any 'meetings' people wanted to see? I promise I'm working on them, as well as some scenes further explaining Mycroft, Anthea, and what the heck is going on with them. When these are done I'll go back and insert them into the story and let you know where you can find them. But what I'm really excited about? I graduated university two days ago! After four wonderful years of history and magic, I didn't need any fireworks this 4th of July :D


	14. The Writing On The Wall

**A/N:** This last month has been _crazy_. From travelling around Europe, graduating from uni (!), playing tour guide in the US, to preparing another visa so I can go back to the UK for my Masters, I've been a wee bit busy. But still, I'm so sorry for the lack of updates! My original plan was to finish this story by the start of September, but unfortunately I can't make any promises. Whatever that is, I want to give an enormous thank you to my amazing beta spellmugwump97 for her tremendous help in this tale!

This chapter is primarily snippets of news reports, with the muggle side focusing on television broadcasts and the magical community on newspapers (with switches from British to American English depending on the source). BBC, CNN, The Daily Prophet, FOX, Witch Weekly, internal Ministry memos, blogs, and mobile conversations are interspersed in this mad mix. Almost none are specifically named but they're in chronological order and generally transition from muggle for the initial responses to wizard for the later reports.

**General Disclaimer:** When you begin to _miss_ Rita Skeeter's 'journalism', you know you aren't at Hogwarts anymore. Nor Pigfarts.

* * *

"—England has called for a state of emergency in the greater London area—"

* * *

"—no one's claiming responsibility for these terrorist attacks. But come on, you know what everyone's thinking! How many groups have access to showy biochemical weapons? Exactly! Of course, all our hearts go out to England, but this despicable attack _proves_ the liberal's pacifist, pie-in-the-sky idealism has no place in the real world. We saw this back in 2001, and now it's hitting our closest allies. What will it take for people to see that sometimes a good offence is the best defence? Many will be rethinking their criticisms of Bush's and Blair's strategies now, I know that much. Our word of the day? Peace. Which we'll help maintain by giving Britain a bigger stick."

* * *

"—curfews coming into place in central London and its surrounding districts, while most underground lines remain closed for the foreseeable future. With only limited access to the Tube for emergency personnel, hours in from the worst attacks England has seen since the Blitz, the rescue mission based in a hastily-converted King's Cross Station will likely continue though the night without stop. But with hospitals reporting that the vegetative coma remains a tragic puzzle, hope is already dwindling for the hundreds of affected 'survivors'. The World Health Organisation hedged their statement on this illness, not yet backing CNN's perhaps premature reporting of a biological weapon attack. Yet, with the symptoms and the few perhaps hallucinogenic reports of 'cloaked monsters' emerging from the fog from young, traumatised eye-witness children, it remains a mystery. Most survivors reported a severe chill in the moments before their fellow passengers began screaming, and those slow to evacuate the areas have also said that the apparent gas felt, to them, as though an overwhelming sorrow was taking hold of them. Some further told of how they flash-backed to trying times in their pasts—"

* * *

"HARRY! What. The. HELL!?"

"Nothing happened! The reporter's just trying to work people up. I haven't declared martial law or suspended habeas corpus because, oh yeah, I haven't gone crazy! _No_, I'm not going to, nor is the muggle government! And NO, I'm not doing anything illegal to search for Jamie! Though Merlin knows I want to. You're following the Bath lead?"

"You shouldn't even know about that but, yes, that's still the main focus. Harry, if you want to take a leave of absence—"

"Stop, Hermione. Just—stop. Don't bring my family into this."

"This isn't healthy."

"…"

"Harry?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Don't ask."

"You're a horrible liar sometimes. Though, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…cursed. Though this disaster definitely calls for language."

"…"

"…"

"Are, are the principles still secure?"

"Shadow Ministers are underground, the PM's meeting was without incident, and Royal's press conference is wrapping up. All the family's accounted for. Everyone not in the Ministry are either at the Burrow or waiting to get through border security."

"Any more issues with the evacuations?"

"They're going as well as can be hoped. Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, Baker Street and the Tube have either been evacuated or fully closed. For the Tube, teams have evacuated the victims and survivors from the main lines and all dementors are either back in Azkaban or en route. No, I have no more news on the blasted portkeys; Bones' team is looking into it. Victims in Heathrow were confined to the area for magical departures, but the entire facility has been closed with all flights grounded. So, not only are there a few million people to divert, but the volunteers from the continent can't get into the city! But, no, no new victims. Which is at least something."

"I suppose. No more news on the kidnapping; I'm sorry, I'm doing all I can. The muggle press are going with the chemical weapon story, the families are being notified and…Harry? Are—are you getting this?"

"Getting wha—wait, Abercrombie's here. Yes, thank you. I…Christ. How recent is this?! Oh hell, Hermione! Was Holmes' assistant injured in Baker Street?"

"What? I think so. But Harry, are you seeing what I—"

"I am! Damn it, I can't believe we overlooked this. I'm stuck to Royal but you need to shut out Mycroft Holmes _now_!"

"Mycroft? But he was kidnapped."

"He kept everything on his blasted phone! If the encryption's been compromised than his assistant had the only main failsafe…don't ask how I know, just get Downing Street to lock him out of the damn systems!"

"Fine, but I don't understand. How do you know this is the cause?"

"Lestrange was just released and Holmes was keeping him under watch! 'Perfect security' my arse. I'm going to kill Holmes once I find him. Hermione, _lock him out!_"

* * *

"Any further casualty numbers out of London?"

"That's actually become one of the key mysteries to this tragedy. As of yet, no one has actually died. But hospitals filling up with the effected victims are reporting that the supposed chemical agent simultaneously released at various points of the subway, the Tube, resulted in coma-like states for those who breathed it in for long enough. Rescue missions are ongoing, but the early count—"

* * *

"—the numbers for both will continue to rise as London's police and volunteers race through the night to clear out the Underground. Whatever occurred managed to hit the entire apparatus at once, effecting various cars in the tunnels. Many of the stations were likewise attacked, with the weapons' concentrated being on the Circle Line. With large portions of the Tube remaining obscured by the mysterious smoke, it is unknown how long the desperate search for survivors might continue. While there are, as of now, no actual casualties, this is little encouragement for families who have already begun to mourn their unresponsive loved ones. Though a cure is still well possible, the dire hospital reports on the seriousness of the brain damage is heart-wrenching."

"Twitter and other sites, while bursting with grief and prayers for those affected, have already spawned an alternative 'theory' to what has occurred. Taken by most as a joke in extremely bad taste, this growing online sub-culture claims that the chemical weapon and witness testimonies are close in depiction to chilling monsters in the popular series—

* * *

"—what the smoke and horrible chemical was is unknown, as is who the perpetrators were. The UK and US intelligence agencies have stated their doubts that this was Al-Qaeda, but terrorism remains the most likely cause. To whoever these cowardly monsters are: you don't know who you've messed with. Forget about 'keep calm and carry on'. We've built an island into an empire! Never doubt that we don't care who you are or how long it might take to find your organisation. We will come together and destroy you."

* * *

"—Britain is in everyone's thoughts and prayers as the world rallies to aide those at the centre of the blasts. Though with Heathrow remaining closed, airports all the way up to Edinburgh are jammed with volunteers coming in and an exodus rushing out."

* * *

"—global markets have plummeted, taking cues from the horrible events momentarily driving to a halt London's industry. Though American and Asian numbers should soon recover from the steep dive, Western Europe will likely see continued stagnation, if not a further decrease if the situation progresses for the worse—"

* * *

"—yes, reports coming in show the transpiring of events before the turmoil broke through. We go now to our foreign correspondent outside 10 Downing Street, home of Prime Minister Tony Blair. Christine, is it really safe for you to be standing there?"

"Don't worry Wolf, I should be fine. England's leadership was on the whole excluded from yesterday's 'London Fog' attacks which targeted commuters on most major Underground Tube cars and stations. Heathrow was also meant to be hit, though the weapon there reportedly failed to be set off. Now, while our attention is rightly focused on the perpetrators and victims of these unprecedented biochemical attacks, a source in Scotland Yard draws in another puzzle to this overwhelming tragedy. While the Yard has already been heavily criticized for their initial slow response, apparently multiple false alerts were called in immediately prior to the attacks. Attempts to trace these red herrings have failed, but they caused a majority of London's police force to be mistakingly set to Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace, or here to Downing Street. All three were unaffected by the attacks, though there was a likely unrelated fire and subsequent evacuation at the National Portrait Gallery."

"So the British leaders haven't been directly impacted?"

"No, though various Members of Parliament are among the number still yet to be found in the Underground. There's been few statements from M15 and M16 as to the nature and motive of these attacks. Though Blair is due to give an address within the hour, there is severe doubt that the government will be any more forthcoming."

"The attacks just happened yesterday! I'd imagine the government is understandably still scrambling, with a focus on rescuing and aiding the survivors."

"True, but the general atmosphere of grief is already turning to rage. With no currently known perpetrators, the nation is desperate for answers. This new questioning of the Yard is only one of many accusations that are beginning to be flung, though the government has in this instance already begun to protest the factuality of the former."

* * *

"DI Gregory Lestrade is coming under extensive fire. Having already faced controversy with his infamous roles in both the Holmes and Openshaw scandals, this latest business might cost him not only his badge but, possibly, criminal charges which many think are long overdue. With the world reeling from the London Fog tragedy, the Yard has almost immediately come under fire for their lack of police response in the early stages. The cause of this critical delay came from spontaneous 'false' alerts throughout the city, and all of these reports are now known to have been funnelled through by one man.

"Though Lestrade shouted, 'It's not my blasted department!' while racing into the Yard with an unknown, harried redheaded woman in tow, we ought to question how much of the Yard's business appears to be going through this single official. For though Lestrade's relatively small department is meant to solely investigate cases of homicide, their recent activities range from coordinating all the false alerts of terrorism to executing unjustified 'drug busts' of Sherlock Holmes. Holmes, a well-known private detective, was earlier this year infamously, ruthlessly hunted by this same department under Lestrade's command.

"Whether Lestrade and his ilk are in part to blame for the London Fog is unknown, but as Britain mourns we ought to take a closer look at who exactly claims to protect us. BBC's Natasha Wilkes, reporting outside Scotland Yard."

* * *

**The Personal Blog of: Dr. John H. Watson**

**About me:** I am an experienced medical doctor recently returned from Afghanistan.

**Hit Counter:** 1895

**What sort of name is 'London Fog'?!**

John's promised update has been delayed. Turn on the telly to find out why; I'm not going to spell it out for those of you who lack any cognitive processing ability.

No, I'm not open for interviews, and while emails flinging blame on my shoulders are mildly amusing, messages expressing your shallow 'deepest regrets and well-wishes' aren't welcome in the least. To the Guest who implied Mrs. Hudson is faking her injury for insurance, you are clearly unaware of how easily IP addresses can be tracked. Enjoy your 'present'.

Most importantly, every last one of you idiots should STOP CONTACTING ME!

You're boring and _I'm busy_.

SH

**Comments Disabled**

* * *

Dear Readers,

Due to overwhelming personal troubles and stress, I am taking an extended leave of absence from the _Daily Prophet_. Though I adore Quidditch and writing, my family is worth so much more and I cannot waste anymore of the precious time I have with them. For everyone else affected by the London Fog attacks, I am tremendously sorry for your loss. The only reassurance I can give is that the bravest and most wonderful man I know is working so hard to bring you peace, justice and closure.

To my supporters, thank you so much for your well-wishes and support. But to those who have sent Harry and myself Howlers? I have only one thing to say: [comment censored by the _Prophet_ for inappropriate language]!

Ginny Potter

* * *

Lumos vigils are being held around Britain tonight. This sense of perpetuating mourning has not been seen since the end of the Second War. It is thus somewhat fitting that both tragedies have been tied with one central figure. For while fighting Death Eaters made the 'Man Who Conquered', weathering this storm as newly instated Head Auror will, this reporter trusts, cement his figure in history for generations to come.

Potter's post has not come, however, without controversy. In a 'blink-and-you'd-miss-it' ascent of official power, the span of nary a week saw the Auror Office replace the retired Deputy Head Fenelius Flint with the Wizarding Saviour, before Potter's appointment was rapidly 'elevated' with the terrifying assassination of Ex-Head Auror Gawain Robards during the 'London Fog' terrorist attacks. Indeed, everything but Flint's initial resignation occurred within a few hours, and the parchment making Potter Deputy Head had barely dried before Robards was struck with the killing curse.

The investigations surrounding this death and the horrendous dementor attacks across London are ongoing. While Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt, his ministers (including Potter), and their muggle equivalents have made various statements of sorrow, little has been said on the details and proceedings of these cases. The ambiguity is rather understandable in this early stage, largely due to the chaos brought on by these tragedies, Ministerial stir-ups, and the colossal breach of the Statute of Secrecy. The Shacklebolt Administration has simply emphasised their sadness over Robards' and the others' passing, their focus on this developing situation, and their complete confidence that the new Head Auror will step up to this challenge. Ex-Deputy Flint has not been seen since his resignation.

As for the unorthodox Head Auror Potter, his constant presence at crime scenes and press conferences since he was one of the officials falsely called to Trafalgar Square, must silence many of his opponents. Potter, indeed, seems to be the point man for almost every aspect of the attacks. The only exception is the rumour of a kidnapping, to which the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, Hermione Weasley, is instead reportedly in charge of. Why this is the case is unknown, though with assuming that the kidnappee's name has not yet been released because he or she is underage raises a tragic suggestion—

* * *

—sheer dumb luck that our world is not reeling under an even greater tragedy. Rather, it is nothing less than a miracle that so few innocents were kissed. _This_ has little to do with the aurors and Ministry as a whole, and no one today is ignorant of the scandals that have racked them.

Today? We instead have countless brave citizens to thank for stepping forward and saving our communities from disaster. Dementors had barely appeared in Diagon Alley, Heathrow and Hogsmeade before everyone from shopkeepers to retirees were firing patronuses.

"Mine's a swan! A foggy one, but I'm sure it was that." Marietta Edgecombe preened, proudly stating how she'd been in the Apothecary at Diagon Alley during the attack. "Learned how to cast it myself, of course. Such a shame it's a tricky spell: only the greatest of Ravenclaw minds are wise enough to learn it!"

"Difficult? Are you mental? Why're you listening to Edgecombe?" Neville Longbottom, Hogwarts' Herbology Professor, rested with his wife Hannah following the attacks at the latter's The Three Broomsticks. The two of them rescued countless people, evacuating children from Hogsmeade long after many others had fled. "Plenty of people know how to produce patronuses! Minerva McGonagall's insisted it be taught in DADA lessons for years. Course, all that started with Harry Potter teaching some of us back at school. You don't want to hear that though, do you. But guess what? Harry's a hero. Always has been, always will be! Doesn't matter what anyone else says; we'll stand by him through and through."

* * *

—though some liberal pundits continue to sing Potter's praises with the string of attacks and his ascension to Head Auror, the majority are not about to be blindsided by his heroic image and overlook the series of disturbing facts.

As every reader must know, the most suspicious event concerning this was that, within hours of Potter's appointment as Deputy Head Auror, Former Head Gawain Robards was ruthlessly murdered in the centre of the Ministry, literally surrounded by squads of trained personnel. No leads on assassins have been announced, and furthermore some have speculated that the paperwork on the transition of Deputies (over from the retiring Fenelius Flint, who has not been accounted for since the attacks) was not even completely officialised before Potter was rushed into office by his good friend Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt and sister-in-law Head of Magical Law Enforcement Hermione Weasley. Potter's promotion would, under normal circumstances, warrant whispers of nepotism and favouritism. But with these nefarious 'coincidences' that are piling up as the days progress? No one can deny that something horrible has taken place in wizarding politics. The Wizengamot ought to take note, or the public will.

In addition to this, the newest evidence shows that Potter and his then-partner Ron Weasley (husband to the Head of Magical Law Enforcement) were the two Senior Aurors who called in the initial false alert on Trafalgar Square. Their 'mistake' caused a serious delay on auror response time to the actual attacks, and cost countless magicals and muggles their lives. The Ministry's response? 'The investigation on that particular episode has been concluded, and there is no reason to believe that deliberate foul play was utilised on the part of the aurors to lead the department astray.'

Bullocks.

* * *

While most of the extended members of the Potter and Weasley family are coming under extensive fire, one or two individuals have become bonafide heroes overnight. Even though all of the persons mentioned have kept themselves secluded since the attacks, excepting certain Ministry press releases of an official capacity.

William (Bill) Weasley and George Weasley have both been acclaimed by the public for saving countless lives with their quick actions at Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. With their impressive patronuses (a wolf and a monkey, respectfully), both have become media and public darlings. This is in direct contrast to the harsh criticism and likely pending charges against their siblings in blood and in law: Percival (Percy) Weasley, Hermione Weasley, Ronald (Ron) Weasley, and the ever (in)famous Harry Potter. Joining the latter list is the always controversial Ginevra (Ginny) Potter, who is alternatively beloved by some as a feminist Quidditch superstar, and loathed by others who view her as a scheming gold digger who's fond of amorentia.

But George Weasley might be joining the rest of his family in the negative spotlight soon enough. Reports have concluded that the blasts which allowed dementors to be portkeyed in by taking out the magical security protecting both muggle and magic sights (mistakingly taken for explosions in the initial response), were manufactured by his company, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Having developed suspicious inventions in the past, Mr. Weasley has issued a statement that his product Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder was bought and modified by the perpetrators and that it was never meant to be used in such a capacity. He stresses his horror at the attacks and his innocence of any involvement with the crimes.

Some might recall that this 'Darkness Powder' was also used in 1996 to aide the Death Eaters' siege of Hogwarts that led to Albus Dumbledore's death. So though George Weasley might have, indeed, been oblivious of what his customers were planning, this ignorance and terrible naivety in allowing this dangerous product to remain on the market will turn many heads.

* * *

**Memo From:** Hermione Weasley

**To:** Harry Potter

**Subject:** Stop being stubborn and listen!

It might be news to you, but staying up for three days straight isn't healthy. Not even to determined idiots like you! So before I need to slap some sense into you, stop blaming yourself. Go home and eat something before you collapse from hunger—something that wouldn't do Jamie any good anyway. I'm following up on every lead, there are plenty of people here to help, and you should be with the family back in the Burrow. If you won't do it to relax, go there to stop Ginny from going on a rampage (on both the media and criminal underground).

Try and stop worrying, or at least driving yourself insane. The spells on Jamie show he hasn't been hurt, only the idiots are blaming you for any of this, and the rest of us are all here to support you. _Sleep!_

* * *

**Memo From:** Harry Potter

**To:** Hermione Weasley

**Subject:** Re: Stop being stubborn and listen!

There's not a chance in hell that's happening. Ginny is handling things fine, and I'm working on solving this mess here.

I don't need a break.

* * *

**Memo From:** Hermione Weasley

**To:** Harry Potter

**Subject:** Re: Re: Stop being stubborn and listen!

Sometimes I hate your Gryffindor side. I mean this with love, but you look like death dried over.

What do you mean that Ginny is 'handling things'? Have you…Harry, have you even seen her recently? She looks even worst than you do! You must have gone to the Burrow, right? Is—is everything okay? I'm really worried, we all are.

* * *

**Memo From:** Harry Potter

**To:** Hermione Weasley

**Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Stop being stubborn and listen!

No, everything's not okay! But I'm a bit too busy protecting my family and trying to solve all of this to make social calls! Ginny knows what I'm doing and I'll see her, Al, Teddy, _and Jamie_ once this nightmare is over.

Leave me alone and let me do my job.

* * *

**Memo From:** Hermione Weasley

**To:** Ron Weasley

**Subject:** Plan B

Reasoning hasn't worked, so ambush Harry with a sleeping spell in his office. Blame me, I'll pull rank if I need to.

Ginny won't see me. Can you try? Your mum's been taking care of Al and I—I think it's worse than we thought. _Has_ Harry been to the Burrow since this all started? I'm almost hoping that Ginny's just furious with him rather than…you know.

* * *

Former Deputy Head Auror Fenelius Flint continues to be astonishingly quiet during this national catastrophe and Ministerial scandal. With him having previously vocalised his issues with both Former Head Auror Gawain Robards and his successor Harry Potter, his current silence is astonishing. Even before Potter's actions began to be questioned by the public in his 'quick and suspicious' promotion, many understandably assumed that Flint would make a rapid statement condemning the Auror Office's new leader. Flint had made no secret of his severe dislike of Potter in the past, a feeling that only grew to hatred when the latter began investigating the former's brother's death as part of the 'Dancing Men' serial murders. With all of this, it is stunning that Flint has yet to add his voice to the others criticising Potter's suspiciously central role in various aspects of the London Fog attacks.

* * *

—portkey traces in Azkaban verified how dementors were able to appear across London instantly. How security was broken through on both ends is unknown, as is who the perpetrators were. Most dementors have since been taken back under control, but sporadic attacks are still being reported. The Ministry has issued wide-ranging alerts calling for vigilance.

Britain might take heart that no prisoners escaped with these events. There are rumours of a release of a muggle criminal around the same time, but this seems to have been through legitimate means and an official channel. With the Ministry working around the clock to stop the remaining dementors, quell the terror, feed false information to the muggles, deal with international blame and compassion, as well as (in the cases of Shacklebolt, Weasley and Potter) ease the public and Wizengamot with trying them for treason, one needs to wonder how many details are being overlooked.

* * *

—riots against Potter as well as counter-rallies in his favour are popping up around Britain this evening. In London, their popularity has almost overcome the vigils for those affected by the attacks. Though no members of the Potter or Weasley families have issued a statement, the Ministry has called for all to refrain from protesting destructively—particularly in light of the present crisis.

The anti-Potter protests are vastly more popular than the counter-opposition. Though this situation would have been considered impossible only a few weeks ago when Potter was viewed as a beloved, heroic 'saviour', the current campaigners have dwelt on his controversially suspicious appointment as Head Auror, as well as his role in the London Fog terrorist attacks. Even if Potter was an innocent figure in these events, his obliviousness to being 'used' does not bode well for public confidence in his leadership abilities.

Though a smaller group, Potter's still loyal fan base has made up for their numbers in their vocality. Intrinsic to their counterargument to the critics is a parallel drawn to the years 1995 through 1997, where Potter was derided by the public and Fudge's Ministry, proclaimed as a Boy Saviour, and was then labelled as 'Undesirable Number One' by Thicknesse's corrupt administration. Potter's supporters focus on the fact that, even after being hunted as a criminal on false charges, this controversial figure was still willing to sacrifice his life to rid Britain of You Know Who. They point to this episode as being a key example of Potter's exceptional morality, while pointing out that a similar scapegoating against him might currently be taking place. Thus, instead of blaming the new Head Auror for any part of the recent attacks, this small group has made numerous statements scoffing the 'atmosphere of fear' that incited this blame. Furthermore, they emphasised that in this time of terror and uncertainty Potter's lengthy record of public service and his apparently 'hands-on' approach to leadership makes them positive that he'll rise to be a much-needed legend in a similar mould to Churchill.

A new age villain or an old-fashioned hero? The public has yet to decide. Though rumours of an upcoming Wizengamot emergency meeting will almost certainly sway the nation one way or the other.

* * *

Further scandal at the Ministry today at the end of a press conference co-held by Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt and Head Auror Harry Potter. Potter had taken the lead, remarking on everything from the London Fog attacks, the escaped criminal Rodolphus Lestrange, to vehemently denying all allegations laid against him of corruption and association with criminals. When the topic of the assassination of Potter's predecessor and mentor Gawain Robards was mentioned, instead of expanding on the case or possible villains for any of the above, the current Head Auror merely gave a few heartfelt words of sorrow and stated that the investigations on this and the other attacks were ongoing.

None of this was new and no pivotal, additional information was released, but when the session was opened for questions the meeting shortly all hell would break loose. This began when a _Prophet_ reporter asked Potter about the kidnapping of his son, James Sirius, and why exactly so many of the attacks seemed to directly affect him? Potter instantly stiffened before claiming that, due to the personal nature of the crime, he wasn't involved with that particularly case. The same reporter continued determinedly (ignoring the glares sent to her by the Minister and various aurors on scene), pointing out that having 'Jamie''s aunt lead the kidnapping case instead was hardly better, and that Potter had not answered the second half of her question.

The Man Who Conquered stared at the woman as though he would like nothing more than to start flinging curses (a quite intimidating thing, considering the circumstances). Visibly getting a handle on his temper, Potter drily spoke. "I haven't the faintest why a terrorist group would 'target' me. But mark my words on two things. The Chudley Cannons are more likely to win the Quidditch Cup than Hermione Weasley [Head of MLE, Potter's sister-in-law, and lead investigator on the Baker Street attacks] act unprofessionally, and if a reporter ever again condescendingly calls my son by his nickname or makes light of the danger he's in, I'll give them a personal demonstration of why these terrorists view me as a threat!"

It was at this point that Minister Shacklebolt stepped forward, placing a hand on the incensed Head Auror's shoulder. "I believe that's enough. Mr. Potter has my full confidence in this trying time and—"

The reporter once more spoke with a sneer. "Even when he's cracking more than his psychotic wife?"

Potter bristled with anger, but whatever retort he was about to make was cut off by an almost equally enraged Shacklebolt. "How dare you! Of course they're worried about their son. What in Merlin's name are you implying?"

"That Potter's the reason for the attacks! Everyone bloody well knows it!" The reporter cried out, standing and balling her fists. "My aunt's in hospital because of you! How many other people have your actions left without a soul?! Oh, but you never had one yourself, did you. I heard about the parseltongue, the leanings towards the dark, the Unforgiveables! Then you've been living it up since the Second War, parading around as Head Auror while London has been grieving! I BET YOU SHOT ROBARDS YOURSE—"

Her shouted accusation was brought to a halt by three ramming hexes that drove her down to her seat (body-bound, silenced, and with new blue tentacles rather than appendages). Interestingly, none of the spells came from Potter. The furious Minister and two on-duty aurors repocketed their wands as the press conference instantly descended into chaos.

* * *

"_Where are you!?_"

"What? The Yard, on business concerning the pearl. The painting was destroyed but that's where this thing began and—"

"GET OUT OF LONDON! Ron's at the Burrow with your emergency bag. GO!"

"What's wrong now? Is everything okay?"

"No, it's bloody well not!"

"Language Hermione."

"FLINT'S DEAD!"

"Damn. Christ, this is the last thing we need. Has his family been notified? He's out of London then?"

"No, but you should be! Your magical signature was found on the body!"

"Wait—_what!?_ Hermione, you know how easily that can be faked. I would never do anything to him, to anyone!"

"Of course I know that, but no one else is listening! The Ministry's finally gone mad and the Wizengamot's caving to the press. The word's gone out that they want you in for 'questioning'."

"So I'll come in and explain."

"Don't be so naive! With a terror alert this high, what do you think will follow 'questioning'?"

"It doesn't mean the Ministry will scapegoat me too! If I run it'll make it seem like I'm guilty of something. I likely have an alibi either way."

"An alibi? They'll claim polyjuice or a time turner. Harry, wake up! You're already the scapegoat. _You're always the scapegoat!_"

"Under Fudge! I'll take Veritaserum, all right?"

"The Wizengamot's out for blood! Do you _really_ want to see if they'll repeat their mistake with Sirius? Oh yes Harry, I went there and all because you won't listen to reason! Listen, Kingsley's hands are tied. His stunt with the reporter has him on almost as tight a leash as you, and that's including the dratted riots. Merlin knows I'll be lucky to last the week! Maybe I'll leak my pregnancy for sympathy points…"

"Hermione!"

"Harry! Wait, tell me you aren't _still_ at the Yard? You are! What's wrong with you!? They'll get the alert in minutes, and by then they'll probably have charged you with murder! Get to the Burrow before the hit-wizards do!"

"Language…and stop screaming. I'm going, I'm going. Ginny and the boys aren't in danger?"

"No, and I'll take care of things from here. Yes, I'll let you know of any updates with Jamie. But _call me_ when you're hidden!"

* * *

"—after weeks of silence, Scotland Yard has at last issued a list of those they are interested in questioning about the London Fog attacks. These persons of interest were partly culminated from anonymous tipping as well as investigative case-working. Though one's inclusion on this list does not implicitly imply guilt on their part, it is a thrilling sign to see our government is at last taking steps to bring the terrorists to justice.

If you know of the whereabouts of any of the persons in the following list, immediately contact the Yard but _do not_ approach them yourself: Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler, Mary Morstan, Anthea Rawthorne, and Harry Potter. The first two names have become famous in some circles, mainly due to their involvement in the—"

* * *

**A/N:** I'd love to tell you that the next chapter is cheerier, but I'm a dreadful liar.

You see I…kind of commit 'Harry Potter' blasphemy in the next chapter. I apologise in advance to all H/G shippers, and only hope that you can find it in your hearts to forgive me.


	15. The Adventure of the Empty House

**A/N:** I'm currently obsessed with 'The Cuckoo's Calling', so if my writing seems rather distracted this chapter (or, erm, unedited: Spell, I am SOSOSO sorry I keep posting things willy-nilly!) just blame Rowling. Her crime novel reads like 'Sherlock Holmes' meets 'The Casual Vacancy' meets Hollywood! I have such a girl crush on Robin—engagement, hopeless romanticism, tremendous flaws and obliviousness, wanna-be super spy skills and all. Matthew has no idea who he has (is losing), and Comoran's an utter moron for being held up on everyone but her. Plus, the freaking green dress! More importantly, did anyone else notice the resemblance between Lula (aka: Cuckoo and Looly) Landry and Luna (aka: Loony) Lovegood? Though seriously, why did Rowling's writing only get this incredible _after_ the Harry Potter series!? Yeah yeah, I get that the latter are supposedly children's books, but still. So not fair.

Huge thank yous to the wonderful Bludger1 and Spellmugwump97!

**General Disclaimer:** I'm not Rowling or Conan Doyle, yada yada yada, and if you're reading this story _instead_ of buying 'The Cuckoo's Calling' you're mental. I mean, thank you and I'm flattered, but you're completely nuts. THERE'S A NEW-ISH ROWLING BOOK! GO! FIND! READ! SHOO! That's right, buh-bye! I'll see you once you've finished so that we can fangirl/boy about it together.

* * *

"'Ella, 'ella, 'ella, 'ella…"

"Mr. Potter—"

"…'ella, 'ella, 'ella! Where's your 'ella?"

"Hopefully safe." Mycroft hummed, switching his gaze between the enthusiastic boy and John Watson, who was still attempting to get out of the bonds. Holmes, having realised the penknife in his cuff link had been removed, had given up trying to maneuver his way out of the ropes and chair some time ago. But John was nothing if not persistent, and he for one was growing tired of Mycroft's nonchalant manner to this ordeal.

"Because your blasted umbrella is what matters." John huffed, at last giving up on scratching the ropes and sitting back in his own chair with a sigh. Realising what he'd said, he turned to Jamie (who, even while bound to a chair, was managing to bounce around excitedly). "Sorry, sorry. I'm just frustrated. You're sure neither of you are hurt?"

"Nope!"

"No doctor." Mycroft said. "Which is a good sign, I suppose. But that we are not being interrogated or stunned unconscious is suspicious."

"Stunned?" John interrupted.

"Exactly what it sounds." Mycroft sent him a look. "Let's just say that, whatever you see is in fact real. Our enemy has weapons we can unfortunately only dream about."

"Like transporting us from Baker Street to this empty room in moments." John sent another cursory glance around at the isolated space. "Magic?"

"Quite." Mycroft's lips twitched.

"You knew about it?" But on second thought John just mentally sighed; of course Holmes knew.

"I was hired for a…delicate analysis. That likely has little to do with the current situation." Mycroft's gaze fell on the oblivious Jamie before sending the other adult a significant look. John nodded once, having already realised who was the true target. "Jamie?"

"Yeah?" The little boy turned back from babbling at something which, John realised, was a spider. Said arachnid took the distraction to scuttle away as fast as its legs could take him.

"I suppose it is too much to ask that, at such a young age, you have sufficient control over your magic to release us?"

Jamie paused, his features twisting in confusion. "Huh?"

John rolled his eyes, having gotten the gist of Mycroft's meaning and able to piece together the rest. He shelved the mind-blowing realisation that he was right about magic for another time (preferably to smugly tell Sherlock that he was a narrow-minded brat, who had better not be hurt or god help these people when John was through with them…). "Can you free us from these ropes?"

The cheerful grin returned. "Nope!"

"Great." John sighed, the little bit of hope that had swirled up rapidly dying. "Fantastic."

"Mr. Watson, there is no need to be so sarcastic. Mr. Potter, I am glad to see you have not lost your…enthusiasm." Mycroft said robustly.

Jamie again looked confused, quirking his head at the older man. "Huh? Da's here?"

"He meant you, Jamie." John sent Mycroft a look, which was returned with a single raised eyebrow. "Look, this doesn't matter. It's been hours, we have no idea where we are, the captors are nowhere to be seen, and for all we know there's no one who can get to us!"

"That aptly summarises the situation." Mycroft frowned. "My mobile is gone, amongst everything else that could aid in our escape. As our captors are wizards they will have made this place impenetrable."

The little boy sent both men a childish scowl, even though he only understood the gist of what was occurring. "Da'll come! He—he said if there're any bad men, he and Unca Ron'll stop them!"

"I am certain they will. As will my own friends." Mycroft said calmly before turning his head marginally within the bounds to face John and explain. "Harry Potter and his brother-in-law Ronald Weasley are both aurors, which is the wizarding equivalent of the police. The family is also a high-profile one, and I have no doubt the children have been taught how to handle these situations."

"Right." Though John couldn't see kids 'handling' being kidnapped. Still, Jamie was unhurt and seemed—while unsettled—surprising chipper considering the circumstances, which was something. "Do you think we should wait for these 'auroras' to find us?"

"Aurors." Mycroft corrected, switching his gaze to the blank wall where a door had momentarily appeared hours ago when their captor had locked them in. "But yes, that is the wisest choice of action. Indeed I am surprised that have not yet arrived; I have to assume that something in this building is stopping the trackers on us from reaching their signals. Still, if we see an opportunity for escape we should take it without hesitation."

"Absolutely." John nodded in whole-hearted agreement, pushing the tid-bit about trackers (on _him?_) to the back of his mind where the reveal of magic was already residing.

"Yeah! Adventure!" Jamie cheered, having comprehended at least that part. "We'll take out bad guys an'—an' ride dragons an'—"

"and we will think our plans through." Mycroft said calmly, apparently thinking the matter was settled. But John, nervous over the enthusiasm the small boy was showing, wanted to nip any dangerous ideas in the bud.

"Jamie," a hint of worry entered John's voice, "don't do anything reckless, even if something does happen. We don't want you to be hurt."

"Indeed." Mycroft's nod of agreement mirrored John's. "It is important we think this through. Most wizards are only threats when they are able to use magic. If their wand, a stick of wood, is snatched away than they become harmless. But you are _not_ to be hit by the spells, which look like beams of light."

"I think you're missing the point." John drily replied before turning to Jamie. "You are _not_ to enter any fight that might break out. Stay quiet and stay out of the way of danger. If you get unbound and have a chance to run, immediately find safe cover before racing to the door."

"But I wanna help!" Jamie cried out, aghast at the plan.

"You will be helping." Mycroft once again surveyed the room. John guessed he was trying to spot anything that would aid them, but had been sorely disappointed. "Both Mr. Watson and I wish to avoid you falling into harm's way. However, if you do find yourself in a fight—"

"—I should try an' break their wand," Jamie recited in a slightly bored tone, catching both men by surprise, "an' make sure dey don' grab me. Da says to scream bloody murder an' bite all the hands while running away. But mummy says pokin' 'em in der eyes hurts more. But I'm not supposed to do dat to Teddy or Al 'cause it's bad, e'en though Vicky bites Teddy _all_ the time when he pulls her hair. Says it's shiny. Oh, an' Auntie Mione said to kick dem between their legs. Da an' Unca Ron _always_ wince at dat, but mummy said it was good."

Mycroft and John shared a glance, for the moment connected though speechlessness. "I am…not even sure why that is surprising."

"_What?_" John gaze turned into bewilderment.

"Wha'?" Jamie echoed.

"Nothing, nothing. Your family is simply highly prepared." Mycroft shook his head, murmuring something about, 'countless protective charms'. John began to wonder if Harry Potter's paranoia made Mycroft's look like child's play. "But yes, apart from the screaming that is exactly what you should do. Rather than calling for help, try to be as quiet as possible though run away as fast as you can."

"If we get out of these bonds." John reminded them.

"Yes, indeed."

"And if the door ever actually appears…"

"Do try not to be so pessimistic." Mycroft sent him a vaguely scolding look. John, feeling anxious about both their situation and what else had happened at Baker Street, made an annoyed face back. Jamie giggled.

But any further deliberation or face making was halted when the door in question materialised in the front wall. Almost as instantly the entrance was rammed open to a blustered, heaving man dressed in black cloth. A dark countenance stretched across his features. It was impossible for this entrance to not incite fear, but John found himself more surprised than anything. Whether this was from the blood trekking down from the clearly recent wounds on his face or the strange sense of familiarity, he wasn't sure.

"YOU!" The apparent kidnapper barked, sweeping forward with a slight limp. John realised why he'd been surprised: this man's glaring wasn't focused on Mycroft or Jamie, but on _him_. Oh, this couldn't be good…and was probably Sherlock's fault. "I'll destroy you, you lit—"

"Lestrange, I assume?" Mycroft interrupted, while sending as 'as-reassuring-as-he-could-get' glance at the scared little boy. "I see you used my mobile to escape. Interesting trick, particularly since you were the attacker in Baker Street."

"The boss takes care of plenty of things." Lestrange scowled, eyeing John's neck as though he was moments from choking him. "Like how to make certain thorns in my side disappear in the Thames."

"The boss?" Mycroft spoke with a slight hurry as Lestrange's hand darted into his cloak to reveal a long wooden stick. "James Moriarty?"

"The one and only." Lestrange spat out before growing tired of talking and levelling the stick at the doctor. "_Crucio!_"

It was pain beyond anything John could have imagined. A hysteric laugh bubbled up in his protesting throat that he'd once considered a silly leg wound to be the peak of turmoil. In the next fraction of a second, all rationality had boiled away as knives stabbed every inch of his flesh, blood and bone. Hot poison seeped into his mind as every inch of him flailed.

Then it was gone. Gone, all but for the lingering agony and jerks of his spine. He felt his scream dwindle off to a moan. His head throbbed in deep pulses, chest taking heavy stabs of breath against the too-tight bindings.

As John's senses numbly returned, he noticed that the room was still full of screams. Mycroft's loud protests were unsurprising, as were Jamie's shrieks of terror. What he didn't quite know how to interpret were the guttural groans of pain that didn't come from him.

Dimly opening his eyes to find Lestrange scrambling against a miniature dragon attached to his hand, John logically assumed he was hallucinating. Blinking and peering out again, he further noted that Mycroft had fallen into silence and that the _dragon_ (for the small red and black creature was still there). Jamie was past his fright and was now cheering the animal on, and the beast in question was happily trying his hardest to set Lestrange on fire.

"I see." John coughed, the residual pain slowly abetting. "I'm asleep. This is a dream. Where I was attacked by a wand, a kid turned it into a dragon and…Christ."

"Either that," Mycroft spoke with a tinge of disbelief, "or my dear brother has made good on his threat to drug me. Silly really to be that upset over a few CCTVs…"

"RUN RUN RUN!" At the shout both men jerked up to realise that, yes, they could stand up—John half-sprawled due to his hurry to get up and misjudging the height. For all the ropes had disappeared, Lestrange was now covered with attacking miniature dragons, and Jamie was hopping up and down right beside the door. The child in question stared at the adults as though they were complete idiots. "RUN!"

"Ah, right." Mycroft caught up to Jamie with quick steps. John fumbled slightly behind, sending cursory looks to their very-much distracted captor until the door closed behind him.

"Now we have to figure out where this is." John glanced around the circular hallway until, all of a sudden, the walls began twirling. Within seconds it had stopped again, but he had no idea which of the many identical doorways was the one they had been held hostage in. "Oh, just _fantastic_."

Mycroft let out a sigh, scanning the doors. "This does not bode well."

"Oh?" John turned to him with a questioning look. A thumping had begun on a door across from them, and he was happy to realise that the original entryway must have resealed itself and disappeared. At least there was one silver lining. Maybe if the pain dulled even further he'd be able to think clearly. "You know where the hell we are?"

"The Department of Mysteries." Mycroft forestalled the inevitable question by hurrying on. "Part of the Ministry of Magic. Yes, this exists. The important part is that, as the aurors have failed to find us, something has gone horribly wrong."

"Oh really!" John partly repeated, throwing his hands up in frustration. "Would never have guessed that, mate. But—Jamie, stop making dragons appear! Why are you even able to create them in the first place?!"

The little boy humphed, protesting that the miniature creatures' burning of the doors was _fun_! John, nearing the end of his patience, began to protest when he was cut off.

"Actually, that is not a horrible idea." Mycroft said thoughtfully, beginning to walk to the most badly singed door. "With the loss of mobiles, no evidence of other villains, and no sign of a notable exit, I suggest that we go exploring."

"Yay!" Jamie returned to his cheerful self, bouncing along behind the man. John followed at a more solitary pace.

* * *

Harry burst through into the Burrow, only pausing to throw hurried apologises in the entranceway to his ballet dancing nieces, Vicky and Rosie, for knocking off their step. But without further ado he rushed into the living room, halting the lowered voices. "RON! Where's Ginny?"

"She's—ah—" Ron, moving forward from where he'd been having a hushed conversation with most of the Weasley adults, eyed his best mate warily, "—your bag is here…"

Harry, though groaning with frustration, still easily caught the thrown, minimised bag (his Quidditch-born reflexes hadn't dulled with the years) and shoved it in his pocket. "Thanks, but not the time mate. I'm _kind of_ in a hurry. Where is she?"

"Upstairs," Andromeda, standing from the table where she'd been quietly talking to Fleur, answered after a lengthy pause, "with Al and Teddy."

"Harry dear," Mrs. Weasley strode forward with a concerned look, cupping her son-in-law's flinching face in her hands, "why haven't you been home? Has something else gone wrong?"

"You—could say that." Harry sent Ron an irritated look, to which the latter only shrugged with a helpless expression. He moved a step back from his mother in all but blood before sending a reluctant glance to everyone in the room. "I thought you'd heard…I, I don't have time to explain. I'm sorry. Just, whatever you hear about me, it isn't true."

"I was just about to explain." Ron clapped his shoulder, jaw set and determined. "Do what you need to do, we'll try everything we can here."

"Thanks." Harry felt a swell of relief, not realising until this moment he'd been anxious about how his family would react. But this, knowing that Ron knew he was innocent, that he would stick by his side… "Thank you, really mate. I—Christ. You know I can't take them."

While everyone else grew more confused by the word, Ron's mouth quirked as though he was struggling not to grin. "Ginny might have something to say about that." His half-smile fell away. "But, yeah. I'll hold her back if need be."

"And you'll—"

"No one's getting at any of them." Ron's countenance grew hard, and before Harry knew it he'd been pulled into a gruff hug. "Ginny, Al, Teddy, the Blob…I swear I'll keep them safe."

"Not a 'blob'." A slightly hysteric chuckle rose in Harry as he returned the embrace before stepping back. "I'll, I'll head up then."

"Before you disappear?" A soft, utterly familiar voice from the doorway stopped him in his tracks. Pivoting around (hand reaching for his wand out of reflex; Mad-Eye Moody would've been found) he met the steely gaze of his wife. But before he could truly consider her red-rimmed eyes, shadowed concaves, and the clothes hanging off of her exhausted figure, he was all-but pulled off his feet from a mini-metamorphmagus pouncing onto his chest.

"HARRY!" Teddy shouted in delight, his grin reaching Cheshire Cat proportions (almost literally, in his case). Not paying mind to his godfather's surprise he latched onto his torso and neck like a hyperactive monkey. Snorts of amusement came from every male member of the family, while all the females (excepting the stony-faced Ginny) gave wistful smiles. "YES! Have you caught the bad guys? Is Jamie back? It's _so_ boring to play with Vicky—"

"OI!" Vicky, still in a tutu and pulling Rosie along, gave an affronted shout.

"—an' Al's too little! Gran's no fun and even Ginny doesn't want to play Quiddtich! Can you? Where's Jamie?"

"No Teddy, I'm sorry." The thrill Harry had felt at seeing his family filtered off. A toad tugged at his throat as his godson hopped back down. "Jamie's not here yet and we still have to find him and the bad guys."

"He'll be back to play soon, you little monster." Ron affectionately rubbed Teddy's hair, ignoring the latter's annoyed wave and the locks turning to spikes. "Your goddad has to…go on a short trip. He and Jamie will be here before you know it."

"That's news to me." Ginny said again, as quietly as before. Turning his gaze back to his wife and youngest son, Harry was struck by the hoarseness in her tone. "I'm surprised you came here before sneaking away by yourself. How long will you be gone this time? A week, a month? More?"

"It's complicated." Harry dropped his gaze down to his watch, mentally counting how long the wards around the Burrow could keep out the aurors and hit-wizards. "I'm sorry but it is."

"'Complicated'?" Ginny voiced hitched as she strode forward on a halting step. "_Complicated?_ You stupid git! You're leaving to play the _blasted hero!_"

Harry's eyes flew open, not having expected this sort of anger. "No! Christ, that's not what—"

"You're about to waltz off and, again, leave me in the dark!" She said furiously, strength surging back into her voice as she approached her husband. Teddy took a puzzled and frightened step back into his Gran's hug. Harry, noticing how severe his wife's shaking had become, reached forward to take Al from her heaving arms. But Ginny pulled away to instead give her son to Angelina (gently, before the anger surged again almost as soon as he left her hold). All of the observers were, by now, watching the Potters with amazed confusion. "But you expect me to wait, hmm? Sit at home, just _trusting_ that you'll save the day and eventually remember I exist?"

"That's not it at all! I'm trying to solve this." Harry argued back, heat entering his tone as the unfairness of this entire situation swarmed him. "I'm not 'leaving you', I want to keep you safe—"

SMACK!

"How dare you. _How fucking dare you!_" Ginny shouted as her husband, shocked at the slap, couldn't answer. "This is the war all over again. So what is it Harry, you want me to be a good little housewife while you live at the Ministry? You want to care about everyone's family but your own?" She gazed at him, actual hatred entering her eyes. "For years, you kept saying you'd keep us safe. Answer me this then: did Jamie not count?"

Horrified gasps sounded from the watching crowd. Harry, mind going blank with terror as all his worst fears were fulfilled, could only gape.

"You don't have an answer to that, do you." Ginny growled. "Gallivanting around as Head Auror, focussing on your bloody cases rather than _finding our son!_"

"_I've been doing both!_" Harry finally squawked in protest, anger sparking. "There was a massive terrorist attack Ginny, I couldn't ignore that!"

"YOU SHOVED THE KIDNAPPING OFF ON HERMIONE!"

"I DIDN'T HAVE A CHOICE!"

"YOU ALWAYS HAVE A CHOICE!" Ginny screamed, pulsing her fists up against Harry's chest. "But your decision never changes. You care so much more for your imagined 'duty' of protecting strangers than your own family. We're always second!" Her voice quieted and dulled at the end, her beating fingers resting tiredly against his heaving torso. "I hate you."

With this last statement, Harry (the strict window of time and the horrified watching Weasleys long forgotten) felt any remaining strands of balance melt away into nothing. Catching his wife's resisting hands in his own, his answer shook. He didn't even notice that the rest of the Weasleys were making noises for Ginny to stop, to think about what she was saying. "That's—that's not what's been happening. You and the boys mean everything to me. No, please listen! I swear it's the truth! I, I'd be lost without you, but—"

"Then you'll have to be lost." Ginny, tugging away from her husband, looped her arms around her stomach's growing bump. "I'm sick and tired of these lies."

"What lies?" Harry said desperately, panic coating his every syllable and movement. "_I love you!_ That's it, that's all that matters. No matter what you say, I promise I'd go to the end of the earth to keep you safe!"

"What good was that promise to my little boy?" Ginny glared at his paling figure, stepping back once again. "Where were you when we were attacked? Where were you when I was going mad with worry and confusion? _Where the hell were you when I needed you the most?_" Her tears were now flowing without obstruction.

"I'm sorry." His breath caught and it took him a moment to continue. "I am so, so sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing. That any hurt I caused…that if I could only find Jamie…"

"Oh really?" Ginny scoffed, arms falling to her side. "My noble husband, always looking out for our best interests. Then tell me Harry, were you really trying to help us or where you having fun playing Head Auror?"

The other Weasleys, now gawking at Ginny in disbelief, began to protest in equal measure. Vicky and Teddy both moved with concern to their 'Uncle Harry', but he could only stumble back with guilt.

"Are you serious?" George asked his sister incredulously, flinging his hands up as the rest nodded along in bewilderment. "That's not what happened and you know it!"

"Ginny," Ron swept forward to gaze at her, "I can't imagine how you're feeling, but you have the wrong idea. Harry's been working night and day to find Jamie! Christ, just look at him. And he's not 'choosing' to go off or some such rot. The Wizengamot's after him since Flint—"

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT ANY POLITICS!" Ginny screamed, tugging away from her brothers and staring back at Harry with fury coursing towards her. "I don't care. But you do, and you don't give a damn about any of us. So get the hell away from me and _leave my family in whatever peace we have left!_"

As if on cue a sharp noise drifted in from the yard. Only Harry and Ron paid much mind to it, and it was in the former that this jilts him to his current predicament. The rest of the Weasleys are too busy shouting down Ginny's accusations to take much heed.

"You don't know what you're talking about!"

"She's just angry. You _are_ family, this is ridic—"

"Vraiment? C'est stupide! 'arry, none of us blame you—"

"Ginny, remember I have plenty of products to test…"

"You're my son as much as the rest! Don't ever think otherwise. We all know you're trying everything possible to get back Jamie."

"GET OUT!" Ginny's frantic, hysterical screech was heard above the rest, causing a still moment of silence. But this was abruptly shattered by an even louder bang from outside.

"Damn it." Harry, pushing aside his hurt and gulping down all of the fears that surged within him, rapidly gazed about the room. Hesitating no longer, he pulled Teddy and Al into quick though heartfelt hugs, glanced with burning regret at the crying and ashen-faced Ginny, and turned back to Ron. "I, I can't wait. Leave right after me! If you can't get everyone out, surrender _immediately_ and tell them I left ages ago. Try and lead them to the Continent."

"France's always a good shot." Ron sighed as Harry raced for the **cup** of magical powder on the mantlepiece. "Good luck mate. The old tent's in there if you need it, and if you call I'll use a bloody time turner to be there yesterday."

"_What in Merlin's name is going on?_" Mrs. Weasley huffed as green flames erupted.

"I've just been charged with murder." Harry sighed, tapping his hands against his wand, cloak, and bag to ensure they were all safe in his pockets. "I'm innocent but I have to flee—Ron will explain. I'll come back as soon as I can. I, I love you all so much. Ginny? I'm, I'm so sorry I failed, and I get it. I do. But I swear I'll get Jamie back, no matter what it takes. After that, if you—I'll, I'll respect your wished. I'll leave you alone."

With a jump into the fireplace, a last glance at a stricken Ginny and a murmured place name, Harry vanished is sparks of flame.

There was a beat of tense pause. But suddenly Teddy turned to Vicky, a proud and triumphant grin on his lips like only children can have. "My goddad's a fugitive! _So awesome._"

"He's my uncle!" Vicky sniffed, stepping up to the challenge and not understanding the greater implications. "I win."

"You both win!" Ron shouted, pushing the kids towards the adults as the pounding noises from outside the Burrow's fracturing wards grew louder. "Bill, Fleur, mind if we use Shell Cottage?"

"Might as well stick to tradition." Bill groaned, catching Victoire to him as all the adults bundled up wayward kids and steadily ignored the elephant in the room. Ron and George gently took hold of Ginny and Al, both of the former noticing their sister's horrified expression as she stared at the fading emerald flames with dawning realisation.

"Harry…" Ginny swallowed harshly, eyes widening in realisation of what she'd said, "…_oh Merlin_, what have I done? I just…that noble git will…_I have to go!_ I'll find him, I—"

"He wants you to be safe." George steered his now protesting and stumbling sister towards the fireplace. "We'll find him and Jamie. It'll be fine and—_OW!_ Gin, did you just _bite me? Seriously?!_ I—_OW!_ Damn it, is this for the 'Gin' nickname or—_OW! BLOODY HELL, STOP BITING ME!_"

Ginny, not believing George and overburdoned with guilt (to add to everything else), quickly had to be body-bound so as to make an escape (an escape with everyone else, that is, rather than her own impulsive flee). All of the remaining Weasleys and Potters divided up the powder and dived into the flames with shouts. George and his throbbing hand remained with Ginny, gently pulling her to safety (though her unfrozen eyes cried and glared at all of them). Ron kept an uneasy ear open for the breaking of the wards as he watched the others. For though the anti-apparation charms were keeping the Ministry wizards out, if they were broken it'd be easy for the family members who remained to disappear without a trace.

* * *

Harry, having passed through the doorway with little issue (thanks in due part to a well-placed confundus charm), gazed around at the men scattered throughout the room, not really caring that this group—as a whole—was in charge of every facet of muggle society with few people being the wiser. He cleared his throat. This small action brought a round dozen impertinent looks to his person. It was this reaction that finally toppled whatever strand was holding the wizard together.

"_Holmes. Where the hell is he?_" Harry gritted out, ignoring all of the gentlemen's silent anger at his words while placing locking and silencing charm on all the doors. "No, I don't give a damn about your 'Diogenes Club'! Christ, how can you even stand this? But you know what, forget it, you can go back to doing whatever you want once _someone_ tells me where I can find _Sherlock Freaking Holmes!_"

Yet even with a raging man standing before them with bursts of static magic accompanying every scream, the patrons remained resolutely silent. Angry, blustering, and heading for the doors: but silent as a grave. Harry, if he'd been in any state to appreciate this, would have been reluctantly impressed by their stubbornness. But as it was, he was far beyond the point where any of this mattered. He also felt no qualms about displaying magic (it was hardly as though these people didn't know about the secret), or about skipping a 'proper' explanation to cut to the answers.

The auror had been infamous amongst friends for his 'obsessive' tendencies when particular problems arose. So it was rather unsurprising that he felt few qualms about sending out a blanket legilimency probe. Borderline illegal and obtrusive, sure, but if reading these peoples' surface thoughts was the fastest way to get to Sherlock Holmes (a consulting detective, also estranged from the police, and who plausibly cared about finding the three kidnappees as much as Harry himself), than so be it.

_'Who does he think he is?'_

_ 'Outrage! Scandal! Nowhere in the history of the Diogenes—'_

_ 'Harry Potter?! I thought he'd been arrested—"_

_ '—Tracy will not be pleased if I'm late. Or Daphne after her and, shit, my wife…why won't this door open!?'_

_ '—mobiles should be allowed _just_ for lunatics like this—'_

Harry shook his head warily, starting to understand why this spell was illegal. Privacy breaches aside, this would drive any caster insane. "I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes. I need his help to find my kidnapped son, Jamie. I—I've run out of options. Please tell me anything you might know. I realise I've been horrendously rude, and I'm certain at least some of you are aware of the controversy around me. But I'm begging you. I'll let all of you leave either way, but can you tell me anything you know about Sherlock's habits? You must have heard something, especially considering his brother. I've already tried Baker Street, Scotland Yard, St. Barts, Mycroft's flat…"

Silence again swept the room as Harry trailed off. But the same could not be said for the spell and verbose, furious voices that began with a renewed swell to resound in his mind. He clenched his teeth and leaned against the wall as he tried to create some order out of it (all while setting up a _protego_ as one of the younger members tried to attack him):

_'—MAD MAN!'_

_ '—has lost his mind…we're all going to die…oh Jesus H. Christ—'_

_ '—Sherlock Holmes? Mycroft's junkie brother?'_

_ 'Everyone's heard the bloody rumours! Potter killed his brat and now he's going to get us—'_

_ '—Holmes, missing? Hah! Likely shacked up with Adler again. Couldn't get the stench out of my hotel for ages. The bastard and his "The smell was from fermented poison in the wine" bs—'_

Harry pulled away from the thoughts with a short gasp. "Irene Adler!" His exclamation snapped the rest to attention. "Her and a hotel where she'd meet Holmes. Do any of you know about that?!"

_'—completely lost his mind—'_

_ '—won't stop swaying and shaking. Probably wants to find Holmes for another hit—"_

_ '—Grand Hotel—'_

"Thank you!" Harry, gulping in quick breaths, harshly cancelled all the spells with a wave. "You've been a great help."

He apparated away just as security swarmed the room.

* * *

Wrong, _wrong, WRONG!_

He'd been stupid, so bloody moronic, and now John was—

_Shut UP!_ Concentrate. Forget about Mrs. Hudson in hospital, delete Lestrade's frantic call (which enabled a quick escape from Baker Street before the authorities arrived), pretend to have missed the accusations blaring from every paper, ignore the stuffy elite smell in this Grand Hotel room illegally procured, and never mind the complete solitude which has become reality in the past week (where for once you have no desire to follow the sirens blazing across the city). Don't think about the empty blog. Don't consider the umbrella lying in the corner, oddly undamaged from the attack and his hurried flight through the city.

The receptionist had been taken aback by the lack of luggage. Or the 'John Smith' moniker. Or the payment in cash (the compartments hidden within the umbrella did have its uses, though he'd never tell his brother as much). Running to anyone else was out of the question. Lestrade had already put too much on the line, Molly even more so, Adler had disappeared on the wind (the one wise enough to do so), and his brothers contacts were silent, including the anonymous secretary who hid more than he'd previously realised. As for 'family', Mummy was safely stowed away in Switzerland and Harry Watson had given up trying to come down from Edinburgh. He momentarily considered she'd weighed the benefits of helping John against drunken nights at the Fringe, but when this only defused the last strands of patience holding his rage aside he tossed it.

Delete.

Get rid of more and more useless trivia. Clear the mind. Feel the blanket beneath your seated posture, blank out the twitterings of an American couple stuck in London in the room beyond, and _think_. Delete negative repeating thoughts and superfluous theorise. Rewind. _Concentrate_. Connect the unraveled leads until the entire case resembles a galaxy. A suspect wall. Don't think about what's been lost, who you might not see again… focus on the puzzle. That's all that matters.

Murders and the pearl, where it began. But the pearl was a red herring, a minuscule carrot of a reward dangled for distraction that had worked all too well at diverting resources on the wrong lead. That enough was proven by the attacks and kidnapping: it would be like robbing a bank in order to cover up an infidelity. So who was to say the initial murders were not similarly unimportant? That they were thrown about for pomp but without undo motive? Undervalued members of criminal families, disappearing and slaughtered one after another. All with similar M/Os. All who 'died of fright'. But then there were the Openshaws with their papers.

'Undervalued'…

_It was utterly brilliant._ It was exactly what he would have done, if not for playing on the side of angels. Need a supply of henchmen for cannon fodder? Call to all those who see glory but can't grasp it! Connections, loyalty, and desperateness all in one. If they outlived their purpose they were disposed of. No one would care, certainly not their power-grabbing families who had already written them off. If they turned coat like the Openshaws the 'evidence' was disposed of. But evidence to _what?_ Not the pearl; that was a made-up distraction, if anything. That was clear enough.

The evidence was also not for the London attacks, the blasted 'fog'. He was missing Moriarty's _key_, his twist! The card up his sleeve. Unless…

Terrorism: to create terror. What was a better distraction than that? The city was so busy that a single kidnapping was hardly worth mention. So maybe it was to get rid of Mycroft (a minor official, the British government, his older brother), except that he hadn't been the target. Nor had John. To a criminal robbing the bank would be far more important.

He saw the picture clearly in his head of the most important thing, what he would love to delete but never could: the intruder grasping the young boy's throat and the two just beginning to _vanish_ when Mycroft punched his back and John leapt forward to try and break the strangling hold.

That was the answer. The target had been James Potter. Jamie. The key to everything. Except—not. For when a child was kidnapped they were only valuable in their state as a hostage for ransom, blackmail, incentive. The key? The key was Harry James Potter, and Sherlock finally understood why he was the most dangerous man in the world. A man who, in that instant, appeared in the hotel room before him. Directly before him, in fact (door, window or alternative physical hiding place unneeded), swirling off a cloak that acted like a chameleon.

Even with halted breaths, rubbed-red eyes, and a bedraggled figure, Harry Potter still resembled a raging father bear who had just lost his children. Which, considering the situation, was quite apt.

Still, Sherlock could only just keep himself from punching the bastard.

_Bam!_

Oh, wait. He'd overestimated his self-control. Shame. Now he couldn't question him on John's kidnappers for the foreseeable future. Perhaps Molly could aid him in any concussions and/or torture methods? But how to get an unconscious man to St. Barts…

Ah. Right. This 'chameleon cloak' technology was already coming in handy.

* * *

As Harry groggily awoke, his first thought was of Hogwarts' hospital wing. This was accompanied by a buzzing, though not unpleasant confusion of blurriness. It was only when his memories returned that he jerked up, and his blind panic mounted as a soft squeak and pressed hand to his chest forced him back onto the bed.

As a wave of dizziness hit the wizard, a small part of him couldn't help but be grateful to again be lying down. Except that, now that his mind was beginning to properly work, he realised that this didn't actually feel like a bed. It was instead hard metal, more closely resembling a—

"A gurney!?" Harry sat bolt upright, again, in crazed alarm. This time, he resisted Molly's attempt to keep him down with a glare. He tried to ignore how the mortuary was tilting back and forth around him like an out-of-control roller coaster.

"Sorry!" The pathologist replied in a panicked, strained voice. "The Yard's looking for both of you, you have a head wound, I'm _this close_ to being an accomplice, Sherlock's being as vague as always about the impossible and—NO!" As a desperate attempt to keep him seated, she all but leapt onto his chest. "What part of 'head wound' do you not get? _No moving!_"

"I'm a fast healer." Harry grunted out, trying to 'gently' shove Molly away. "Where the hell's Holmes?"

"Lord, he actually gave you a concussion." She stubbornly held her ground while ignoring his question. "No one's first reply to 'you have a head wound' is 'I'm a fast healer'. STOP MOVING!"

"I've had worse!" He, though weakened and still dizzy, managed to push the concerned woman to the side. "It's just a flesh wound."

"You did not just quote Monty Python!" Molly whirled her hands in anxiety, glancing around the room as though someone was about to jump out from the shadows to aide her cause. "This could be serious. Tell me your full name and where we are. Err, do you know the second?"

Harry lowly cursed but appeasingly answered. "Harry James Potter and St. Barts. See? I'm fine! _Where's Holmes?_"

"Who's the PM?" Molly shot back, eyes still darting around the room.

"Who gives a—Christ. Kingsley Shacklebolt, happy?" He said in annoyance, before freezing as his eyes went wide. "I, I mean Brown. Gordon Brown. Slip of the tongue." Molly gazed at him all the more suspiciously, stare at last resting on his form. "It doesn't matter, all right? _Where's Holmes!?_"

"Right here."

Harry, twisting around at the quiet voice, could only gape as the man in question appeared out of the air. The wizard vaguely noticed Molly deflate and mumble, 'Couldn't he've helped earlier?', but focussed on the very familiar item in the consulting detective's hand. He felt his heart pause in new horror, his voice catching in his throat. "Give it back."

"Don't even attempt to explain this away as technology." Sherlock ignored the tightly stated order. Rather, his own tone was one of thinly-veiled impatience and contempt rather than the curiosity one might have predicted.

Harry breathed out as all the fury and desperation of the past few days came flooding up. Seeing this man absently finger his family's invisibility cloak—one of the few things he'd assumed could not be taken, one of the last tools he had to save his son—hatred swarmed over his vision, dissipating the final blurred shapes. Charms, hexes and curses were at the tip of his tongue (he might do an _obliviate_, maybe. At least to Molly: not to the bastard smirking smugly at him and his cloak), before reality crashed back on him: Sherlock Holmes was a git, but he wasn't the enemy. This muggle hadn't been attacking civilians, prosecuting him, and turning everyone he held dear away from him. Sherlock was angry and confused. He'd lost family as well.

Forget about a memory charm or anything else. This man could help and he deserved answers. Harry held back a snort at the Statue of Secrecy. After being constantly blamed by 'his' world for everything, he could really care less about their rules. Screw the press, the Ministry, their secrets, and the aurors! He was tired, he was bloody well exhausted, and he knew that if he could only have his loved ones back, he would run and run and never look back.

With being shoved between 'Wizarding Saviour' and 'Undesirable Number One' for most of his life, Harry was vaguely surprised he hadn't done this earlier. It's not as though he'd have been truly alone: the Weasleys would have followed, Teddy and Andy would have welcomed an adventure, and Ginny would have smiled, understood everything, and run away with him. He would have seen the baby bump grow, hug his wife close, feel the heartbeat of his child (maybe another precious boy, though he did hope it would be a little girl). In some far off place with an unknown name and someone else's life, he would have watched his children grow. Teddy and Al would become amazing young men who never doubted they were loved. James…his little Jamie would be happy, grow old, be bought an entire herd of the dragons he so loved (laden down with every protective charm known to man and monkey), and never doubt that his dad would keep him safe.

Whatever Hermione was doing wasn't working. It was past time he focussed his entire being on what truly mattered, and that started with not cursing Sherlock Holmes.

The wizard sighed, silently wishing he could collapse and forget any of this was real. "Look, just give it back."

"Without a word on what it actually is?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, not seeing this repeated request as the olive branch it was. He instead looked at Harry as though he was a repugnant slug. "So concerned with keeping your precious cloth and 'secrets' that you don't care when innocents fall—"

"I could care less about the damn secrets!" Harry growled, anger hotly returning in a swirl, resolution neatly forgotten. "I'm trying to help the innocents. But if you're thinking about using one of my father's few heirlooms as some sort of incentive, I will destroy you. Your help isn't that valuable."

Sherlock blinked, thrown. He glanced down at the cloak. "I wasn't aware of the…sentimental value."

Harry stalked forward: magic and common sense now discarded. "You aren't an idiot so act like it! You think it's just 'sentiment'? Everyone's fallen back on their favourite habit of scapegoating me, while taking my blasted resources with them. That cloak's my best chance at saving my son!"

Sherlock scrutinised the other man with a pregnant pause. At last, he nodded in satisfaction and tossed over the cloak. "It seems like we are, after all, of the same opinion. The Yard is too preoccupied with the attacks to pay any mind to John and Mycroft, and I can only assume there is a similar situation with your government."

Harry, returning the cloak gratefully to his pocket, began to agree before freezing. "How did you know—"

"—about the separate government?" Sherlock scowled at the boring distraction. "Elementary. 'Magic', allowing for an unknown law of science, clearly exists. This cloak as well as numerous previous glimpses lays amble evidence of this apparent impossibility, all of which draws support to the conclusion that the difference itself is an evolutionary human genome. Which leads to the supposition of a different 'type' of human such as yourself and your family, which further proves it to be genetic. With your extensive ties to a not-Yard British police force, part of the English elite, and my brother himself, a pattern of organised justice, justice and society easily forms. As it is ridiculous to think this established widespread genetic mutation could only occur in Britain, one must assume this to be a worldwide phenomenon intersecting the 'obvious' national institutions. With this context, the '90s terrorist attacks—among countless other historical aberrations, with the highly improbable success of the American colonies' independence being a clear example—suddenly make sense. The conclusion? You belong to and are an extensive figure in a global series of 'magical' worlds. The British one, by your own admission, has cast you out of power with the London Fog attacks." Sherlock paused as Harry gaped.

Molly raised her hand. As the two men stared at her she self-consciously lowered her arm. "You, ah, levitated me while you were unconscious. It was brilliant, it really was. Never knew my cousin had a point with that wicca stuff." Her expression turned wistful before throwing an annoyed glance at her 'patient'. "But sorcerer or not, you still have a concussion!"

"Not a sorcerer." Harry sighed, rubbing his head (to which Molly smiled triumphantly as though this proved a point). "Wizard and—no, wicca's utter nonsense, we had nothing to do with the American Revolution, and _no_, I don't have a concussion." He turned an irritated stare at Sherlock at the reminder. "Speaking of which, why the bloody hell did you knock me out!?"

"Boring." The other man neatly dismissed the accusation, instead frowning at the news that he'd gotten part of his explanation wrong. "There's always something. Funny, at any other time this revelation of 'magic' would distract me for at least a week. Possibly two, considering the apparent obsoleteness of the 'laws' of nature and my annoyance at Mycroft from keeping me from this. Pity. But as John's gotten involved, the only important question is simple: Potter, why are these people after you?"

* * *

**A/N:** To all the actual H/G shippers, I'm really sorry. But when you mix a kidnapping, pregnancy, aloof husband, media insanity, and two red-hot tempers together, something's bound to explode. Or as the amazing Bludger1 put it: family is Harry's kryptonite. How else was I supposed to break down the 'man of steel'?

Also, OMG. Guess what's supposed to come today? The 12th Doctor announcement! WHOO! So in the tradition of the humongous Harry Potter/Doctor Who actor crossover (and assuming that Benedict Cumberbatch won't be lucky enough to take over another fandom, and that Moffat might for once give us what he promises), here's my bets of who'll be the new Time Lord:

The Phelps brothers/Fred and George (I would actually die of happiness)

Domhnall Gleeson/Bill Weasley (GINGER! GINGER GINGER GINGER!)

Emma Thompson/Sybill Trelawney (Because. Just because)

Natalia Tena/Nymphadora Tonks (Enough said. She doesn't need regenerations: regenerations come to _her_)

Evanna Lynch/Luna Lovegood (SQUEE!)

David Tennant/Barty Crouch Jr. (Do you really have to ask? TEN! COME BACK!)

But my perfect line-up? Evanna Lynch as the 12th Doctor, James Franco as her companion, Daniel Radcliffe as the Master, Benedict Cumberbatch as the Dream Lord, and a return of David Tennant as the Meta-Crisis (with Catherine Tate along for the ride)!


End file.
